


2000 Miles

by wreckingthefinite



Series: 2000 Miles [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU after Season 4, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Belly Kink, Body Image, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Chubby Derek, Chubby Kink, Comfort Food, Derek calls Stiles kiddo, Facials, Feeding Kink, Fluff, Food Issues, Food Kink, Food Porn, Fortune Telling, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, New Orleans, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Sex, Top Derek, Weight Gain, is that a kink?, it fuckin should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been five years since Derek moved out of Beacon Hills.  A lot of things change--and some things never do. </p>
<p>Or: Derek is chubby, and Stiles comes to stay with him in New Orleans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A chubby!Derek future fic set in New Orleans, wherein Stiles shows up in Derek's new, supernatural-free life and reminds him that he has a past and he should probably deal with it. Also there's a lot of food and sex because I'm writing it. 
> 
>  
> 
> This fic has been translated into French by calliope83!!! Go [here](https://m.fanfiction.net/s/11788339/1/2000-miles-traduction) to read it. I'm so thrilled--my New Orleans love story is in francais! 
> 
> Come follow me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com), too. There's a #2000 Miles tag, if you're looking for more of this verse.

Derek stares down at his phone, rereading the text exchange for what feels like the twentieth time.

Stiles is coming to New Orleans. To stay with him. For a few weeks, anyway. 

Stiles whom he has not seen since Derek left Beacon Hills. Stiles who is no longer a high school kid but a recent college graduate, no longer 17 but 22. 

Derek doesn’t quite know how he’s supposed to feel about this. When he told Scott yes, give his number to Stiles, and yes, he’d be glad to put Stiles up for a few weeks while he looked for a job, it had seemed easy enough. Stiles used to be pack, sort of. And it was a favor to Scott. And Derek has the extra bedroom. What was the harm?

Now, looking at Stiles’ texts and his flight information and realizing he has to go pick him up at the airport in a few days, it’s all overwhelming. 

*

The night before Stiles flies in, Derek walks down the street to the little dive bar on the corner. They serve food, too, the kind of Cajun comfort food that comes in big batches: seafood gumbo, dripping with shrimp and crab; red beans and rice, spicy and filling; jambalaya made with chicken thighs and Andouille sausages, shiny with grease. On weekends, crawfish etoufee and shrimp creole. In the spring, huge batches of crawfish boiled with red potatoes, corn, so spicy that your fingers burn when you eat it. 

Derek asks for a double order of jambalaya with extra French bread and a beer. The waitress is a girl named Katie, a tiny UNO student with a ring through her septum and a cascade of beautiful art deco tattoos that begin around her neck and run down both arms to her fingers, and she doesn’t bat an eyelash at the huge order. Derek is a regular, and he always tips 25%. 

“You got it,” she says, flashing him a smile. 

The last time Derek had seen Stiles was in Mexico, when he’d fully shifted for the first time. Before the shift, when he’d thought he was dying, the kid had looked back at him in the doorway of the temple, and Derek hadn’t been sure he was going to keep going, wasn’t sure the kid was going to walk away. 

If it had been a movie, he wouldn’t have. Wouldn’t have left. 

But life wasn’t a movie, and in the end, it hadn’t mattered, anyway. Stiles and Derek should have both known Derek would be fine—if they’d learned anything together, it should have been that Derek never died. Terrible things happened to everyone around him, and a lot of times it was his fault, but Derek always walked away, no matter how dire it looked. 

Derek sighs, draining his beer even though it isn't actually going to make him feel any better, and the waitress catches his eye over the bar and gestures that she’ll bring another one. There's a reason he tips her 25%. She is an excellent waitress—and she's quiet, maybe a little sad. Derek likes her. 

Tomorrow night, he’s going to pick Stiles up at the airport, and everything he’s been running from for the last five years is going to come crashing back in. 

And of course it’s Stiles. Of course. He’d always been the one to push, to pop up, to just fucking be there, when Derek’s own betas might have left him alone. 

He snorts, nods a thank you to the waitress when she drops off another beer. His betas. What a fucking nightmare that had been. Two dead, two fled. That was his legacy as an alpha. Giving it up to save Cora was the best decision—in a lifetime of bad ones—that he’d ever made. 

And now he shows his throat to Scott fucking McCall, of all people. But thank god, really. Scott lets him remain nominally in the pack, checking in occasionally when he makes his twice-yearly trips back to California to check on his properties and meet his accountant. Most alphas wouldn’t accept a beta who was gone permanently, who showed no interest in moving back or serving the pack. Derek just needs enough of a connection to a pack to evade omega status—even if he really is a lone wolf in everything but name. Scott seems to get it, though. He never pushes, never questions. 

He’s a good alpha, in all honesty, better than Derek could ever have been. 

“Food okay?” Katie asks, popping by his booth. 

Derek looks down at his plate, nearly licked clean. “Always,” he says, offering her a small smile. 

“Good,” she says. “You want dessert? There’s Cajun bread pudding back there tonight.”

Derek frowns, considering. The food here is great, but it’s a bar and grill—dessert is not usually an option. He lays a hand on his belly, round and full, just barely brushing his thighs. 

She smiles, drops a hand on his shoulder and squeezes as she leans over to take his plate, the kind of casual touch that Derek had to learn to accept as part of Southern hospitality when he moved here. “You won’t regret it. Promise.” 

“You’re probably right.” 

“Of course I am. Be right back.” 

She’s right. The bread pudding doesn’t disappoint. He’d never even had the stuff till he moved to New Orleans, but it’s one of his favorites now. Soaked in whiskey and drowning in butter, made with French bread, it’s sweet and rich and just a little too much—a lot like the city itself. 

Derek loves it here. He’d picked New Orleans somewhat at random. After Mexico, he’d just wanted out. Out of Beacon Hills, out of California, out of the supernatural. He hadn’t known a soul in New Orleans, and he’d craved that anonymity. Not that it had lasted long—New Orleans, reeling with all of its eclectic charm, had sucked him in and made a local of him. Now, five years later, he can’t walk down his street without seeing a neighbor he knows, sticking his head into a local business he frequents regularly. 

In one aspect of his life, though, he has maintained secrecy in New Orleans. No one knows he’s a werewolf, and Derek likes it that way. He recognizes the irony in all of this. He moves to a city so famous for the supernatural that tourists can take “ghost tours” and buy gris gris bags and voodoo dolls to take home with them, and he—an actual supernatural being—moves here to pretend he isn’t.

Then again, maybe it works because New Orleans just tolerates weirdness real well. 

Katie drops the bread pudding off, an enormous bowl of the stuff, and delivers a cup of strong chicory coffee as well, even though he didn’t ask for it. She sets down cream and sugar, too. 

Really, she’s a good waitress. You have to be, working in this city—it takes its food industry very, very seriously. 

Of course, that’s probably been a contributing factor to the fifty or so pounds he’s gained since he’s lived here. 

Derek stirs a generous amount of sugar and cream into his coffee, running a contemplative hand along the curve of his belly. New Orleans is definitely partially to blame; it’s a city that thrives on food, alcohol, and pleasure. No one bats an eyelash at indulgence; vice is a byword. But he’d be lying if he said his getting fat was entirely a matter of geographical circumstance. The other factor—probably a much larger one, to be honest—was that it was comforting. The food itself, sure, but also the way it made him feel, made him look. A little less threatening, a little bit less like a weapon, like a killer. 

He still looks strong—he’s a 250 pound, six foot tall werewolf, so yeah. His upper body is still built, even. But he’s also carrying a noticeable belly, a softness at his cheeks and jawline, his pecs, even his upper arms. 

He takes the last bite of bread pudding and sits back with a sigh. It just feels _good_ , being this full. The anger that used to be his anchor melts away, and his wolf rests easy like this, warm and sated, lazy. 

So if he were the kind of guy who saw a therapist—and hi, not really able to do that when you can’t explain that you’re a werewolf and that pretty much has everything to do with all of your issues—they would probably tell him that as coping mechanisms go, eating himself into a food coma most days is not the healthiest of options. But fuck it. Werewolf healing being what it is, he’s not exactly worrying about diabetes or heart disease. In the grand scheme of Hale Responses to Trauma—which includes Peter’s murderous rampages, Malia’s feral years, and Cora’s hightailing it all the way out of the country—getting kind of fat seems fairly mild, all things considered. 

That night, back in his little second story apartment—uptown, on a parade route, with a balcony, it’s truly a prime piece of real estate—he wonders what Stiles will think when he sees Derek, sees how much he’s changed. Derek isn’t ashamed of his size. Most of the time, he’s much more comfortable at this size than he ever was back in Beacon Hills. All the same, his cheeks burn a little at the thought of Stiles seeing him for the first time in so long and seeing the big belly he has now. 

The kid had a crush on him back then. It had been painfully obvious. If any of that sentiment is still lingering now, five long years later, Derek figures his new body will probably ruin it. 

It’s for the best, of course. 

*

By the time the plane lands, Stiles feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his seat. He didn’t take his Adderall—had thought maybe he’d be more likely to sleep during the flight if he didn’t take it. That, as it turned out, had been a massive mistake. He still hadn’t slept, and he’d been about to crawl out of his skin, as well. 

The guy sitting beside him looks actually, physically pained by Stiles’ presence. 

Stiles makes a valiant effort to quit tapping his hands on his thighs, but it’s probably too little, too late. He can’t help all the twitching; he’s nervous.

Stiles has never been much of a plan ahead kind of guy. He flies by the seat of his pants most of the time, and he’s cool with it, usually. It’s that kind of decision making that got him here, though, getting ready to file off of a plane into a city he’s never seen to crash in the spare room of a werewolf he knew in high school .

At least you can’t say that his life is boring. 

He has no idea what to expect from Derek. He’s actually a little shocked that Derek is willing to put him up, in all honesty. When he’d floated the idea of New Orleans to Scott, sort of on a lark, Scott had immediately mentioned Derek. Stiles had known, of course, that Derek lived there, but he had sort of forgotten. He hadn’t seen Derek in years, hadn’t thought of him much beyond The Source of All His Adolescent Longing for most of the interim. 

Scott had been a little cagey when he’d given Stiles Derek’s number. “He’s different,” he kept saying, sort of cryptically. 

“Bad different?” Stiles had asked, feeling a little concerned. Derek hadn’t been all sunshine and light to begin with. 

“No, no. Just—no, he’s good. Just different.”

“Thanks, Scott, real helpful, bud.” 

*

Louis Armstrong International Airport already feels remarkably different than Northern California. There’s an actual brass band playing near the luggage turnstile, and all around him are unfamiliar accents and the smell of Cajun food. People—presumably tourists—are wearing Mardi Gras beads even though it’s July and Stiles is pretty certain that Mardi Gras happens in February. 

When he walks out the door from Arrivals and into the Louisiana night, he’s hit with a wave of air so still and humid that it’s nearly dripping. It’s almost midnight, but it feels like it must be ninety degrees, and the smell of swamp and cypress is everywhere. 

He spots the Camaro easily, though, one familiar thing in a sea of the unknown. It’s idling at the curb, directly in front of a sign that reads “No Parking.” So some things never change, apparently.

Stiles shoulders his backpack and tugs on his suitcase, heading toward the Camaro. The driver’s side door opens, and—wow. 

So yeah, Derek is _different_ , all right. About fifty pounds of different. He still looks like him—just sort of like the carnival mirror version of Derek Hale. In the two seconds it takes for Stiles to plaster a smile on his face and raise his hand in a wave, he composes about a dozen different possible texts to Scott, all of which boil down to some version of “When you say different, you mean got seriously fat? Thanks for the heads up, bud.” 

Because really? It’s not like it matters that Derek isn’t a walking wall of muscle anymore, but it would have been nice to get that memo before he’s confronted with the knowledge all at once. Especially since Stiles is…uh. Well. Not unfond of big guys. And _Scott knows this._ Stiles had officially come out toward the end of his freshman year of college, and after that he’d dated a string of lumberjack types with varying degrees of muscle-to-pudge ratio. And Scott met most of them. If he didn’t notice a trend, he’s just fucking blind. 

Of course, it’s Scott. He may just not have fucking noticed. 

Stiles snaps to attention as Derek walks around the front of the Camaro, and Stiles decides to go for the hug instead of the handshake. It’s probably going to be awkward either way you cut it—how can it not be when you reunite with the object of your sexually frustrated high school affection after half a decade? So if it’s going to be weird regardless, Stiles might as well take the opportunity to get close to Derek, right? 

Right—but it’s definitely awkward. Stiles throws his arm out, catches Derek in a bro-hug, which Derek very gingerly returns. 

“Hey, man,” Stiles says, pulling back after a moment and stepping back to get another look at Derek. He’s dressed in jeans, boots, a black t-shirt—so pretty much the same wardrobe he’d had in Beacon Hills, even though it’s hot as fuck here. And those jeans. For fuck’s sake, Stiles isn’t sure how Derek got into them, they look tight as hell across his thighs, and they’re fastened under his belly, which that black t-shirt isn’t exactly camouflaging.

“What?” Stiles realizes Derek has been talking, and he’s been gawking at the poor man. The poor, sexy, scruffy fucking man who has an actual beard now, and how the _hell_ is Stiles supposed to live with this man for the next two weeks? It is _literally_ his high school crush, only _better_ , because it’s High School Crush + Newfound Big Guy Kink = Derek Hale. What the fuck is Stiles even supposed to _do_ with this?

Derek gives him a funny look and jerks his head back toward the trunk. “Okay if we put your stuff in the back?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Okay.” Before Stiles can move, Derek has reached down and grabbed his suitcase, leaving Stiles to trail along behind him to the back of the Camaro. 

Goddamn it. Seriously. All the text messages to Scott. He’s going to blow up his phone. Bros don’t do this to one another. 

It’s going to be a long fucking summer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek doesn't mind having Stiles in his new life, but he really doesn't want to think about his old one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess this is a little bit of a slow burn because I'm all up in my feelings about Derek. 
> 
> Oh, and mind the warnings, you guys. Derek has some food/body issues, for sure.

Of course, Stiles wants to go to Bourbon Street, and he won’t be dissuaded. “It’s Bourbon Street! We have to go!”

“It’s a blight on the city and no one should ever willingly set foot there,” Derek replies without heat. 

“But you’ll take me?” Stiles smiles, looking easy and relaxed, a far cry from the boy Derek had once known. 

“Jesus. Yes, once. Get it out of your system now. After this, if you wanna go back you’re on your own.” 

“Deal.” Stiles hums happily, and Derek can’t quite keep his eyes off the kid as he bounces around his living room. 

From the moment he’d picked Stiles up the night before, Derek had been thrown into a weird place where he wasn’t sure how to respond. Stiles is older, and it’s noticeable in some ways—he’s still a little goofy, a little gangly, but it’s like he’s grown into himself now. What seemed like teenage awkwardness five years ago is now coltish and charming. Skinny and uncoordinated has become lean and weirdly, spastically graceful. 

He’s hot, if Derek’s being real with himself. 

And shit, he’s interesting, too. Stiles was always smart—probably too smart for his own good. And now here he is, newly minted bachelor’s degree from a snotty little private Northern California liberal arts college in hand, ready to take on the world. His plan, he’d explained to Derek enthusiastically on the drive home from the airport last night, is to find work in New Orleans while he’s doing his Master’s in Library Science online. Derek had been surprised; Stiles doesn’t exactly strike him as a librarian. It makes more sense when Stiles explains it, though: he’s turning his teenage years working on the Argent bestiary into a career. With his MLS, he’s planning to find work in a historical archive in New Orleans, arguably the most supernatural city in America, all so that he can have access to information to add to the bestiary. 

The kid had taken his full ride scholarship to college and dedicated it to continuing his supernatural research. So basically, he and Stiles have come to New Orleans for polar opposite reasons. Derek is hiding from his supernatural past, and Stiles is seeking out more of the same, trying to turn it into a career. Derek is hiding from his pack, and Stiles is making all of his life choices based on what would be best for them. 

It makes Derek feel a little ashamed. And a little enamored of the kid, despite himself. 

Not that Derek intends to let Stiles know that. Derek would have had to be blind not to notice the double-take Stiles did when he saw him, even if the kid had covered pretty well for it with that ridiculous one-armed frat bro hug. 

Derek can’t help but wonder what Stiles thinks. The last time they saw each other, Derek had abs for days and cheekbones that could cut glass—and Stiles had very obviously been into him. Now, with all of his features blurred under a layer or two of pudge, his wide shoulders balanced out by thick thighs and a beer belly, it seems unlikely that Stiles will still be interested. People usually have a type. It’s just the truth. And the Derek that Stiles knew in Beacon Hills is a very different type from the Derek that Stiles is seeing now. 

It’s a shame, though. Stiles looks like he’s maybe a buck-fifty-five, soaking wet, which means Derek has about a hundred pounds on him. The contrast alone is enough to give Derek masturbatory material for a few days. 

Not that he’s going to jerk off about Stiles while Stiles is sleeping in his extra bedroom. He’s not. Because he’s a gentleman. And also because it just strikes him as pathetic. 

*

It’s early evening when they get to the French Quarter, and Derek promises to take Stiles to Bourbon Street, but only after he’s shown Stiles a few other things in the Quarter first. Stiles acquiesces without any complaints, head swiveling around like the tourist he is. New Orleans will turn your head—especially if you’re seeing an old Southern city for the first time. The 2000 or so miles between here and California might as well be the distance between Earth and Mars, for all the two places have in common. 

They amble down Decatur Street first, and when they pass Central Grocery, Stiles grabs Derek’s arm like they’re old friends. “I saw this in the magazine on the plane!” he exclaims. “They have muffalettas!” he adds, butchering the pronunciation. 

“You want one?” They’re going to have to get dinner, anyway, and there are way worse things to eat. 

“Are they good?” Stiles looks at him appraisingly, as if Derek’s opinion on sandwiches is incredibly important. 

Derek nods. “Yeah, that’s why the line is out the door.” 

So they stand in line for muffalettas, and Stiles insists that he can eat a whole one, even though Derek tries to dissuade him. Stiles is having none of it, and they end up with two full size sandwiches—which is to say, two circular loaves of Italian bread, each sliced in half and piled high with pastrami and ham and provolone, covered in olives and oil. They end up at Jackson Square to sit down in the shade and people-watch while they eat, and Stiles makes a face as soon as he pulls his sandwich out of the bag. “This thing is huge!”

“I told you to order half,” Derek says, shaking his head. 

Stiles shrugs and takes a bite. “Oh my fucking god. That’s good.” He looks absolutely happy, sitting next to Derek on a park bench eating takeaway sandwiches. The heat is stifling, but if it’s bothering Stiles, he doesn’t mention it. 

Jackson Square is teeming with tourists and buskers—there’s a brass band playing a few yards away, and a few little kids are tap dancing to the delight of charmed Yankee onlookers who obligingly toss down dollar bills into the kids’ cardboard boxes. Street performers in gold and silver body paint stand still as statues while tourists snap selfies with them, and college kids drinking hurricanes stand shoulder-to-shoulder with young families on vacation—some of whom are also drinking hurricanes. Horse drawn carriages trundle past, tourists gawking over the side and snapping pictures of St. Louis Cathedral as they go by. Stiles looks utterly charmed by the commotion of it all, and Derek finds himself watching Stiles instead of the crowd around them. 

Derek finishes his sandwich, but Stiles can’t even make it through half of his. Derek assumes he’ll wrap it up and take it home, but instead Stiles hands it to Derek with a grin. “Help me out, here?” 

Derek blinks, a little uneasy, and looks up at Stiles. He feels self-conscious, suddenly, wondering if Stiles would have offered this to him if he weren’t fat now. But Stiles just flashes him an easy smile. “Go ahead, it’s too good to throw away, but I don’t wanna carry it.”

So Derek eats it as they walk around the square, finishing it and tossing aside the crumpled paper in a bin in front of St. Louie’s. 

“Can we go in?” Stiles asks, looking up at the enormous cathedral. 

“Uh—sure,” Derek says. He’s been in before, once or twice, but he’s not Catholic, not religious at all, and as far as he knows, neither is Stiles. 

To his surprise, Stiles walks in and deposits a dollar for a votive and lights one, settling it among the rows and rows of candles others have left. “For my mom,” he says quietly. 

Derek nods, a little taken aback, a little charmed. He wonders for a moment if he should light one of his own, but he has lost too many people. He’d have to buy a dozen. More. It’s too many to count, certainly too many to see tallied up with little flames like that. 

They stand there in silence for a minute, and then Stiles grabs Derek’s arm again. “Take me to Bourbon Street, Sourwolf. You promised.”

Derek feels his lip twitch into a smile at the long-forgotten nickname, and he lets Stiles tug him out of the church. 

*

Bourbon Street is packed, and Stiles looks delighted by all of it, from the mounted cops patrolling the corners and directing traffic, lest a drunk stumble in front of a car, to the strippers idling in doorways and beckoning for them to come in and get a lap dance. He isn’t even put off when Derek has to grab his arm and steer him around a pile of daiquiri-hued vomit on the sidewalk. He just nimbly hops over it and then points to a group of guys all carrying the same green plastic containers of booze. “I want one of those.”

Derek sighs. Of course he does. “A hand grenade? They’re disgusting.”

“What’s in ‘em? Because the people drinking them don’t look like they think they’re disgusting.” 

“The people drinking them aren’t going to remember they were here by tomorrow morning. And it’s basically just sugar and hard liquor.”

“I’m getting one,” Stiles says happily. Derek groans, but dutifully follows Stiles into the open storefront that’s selling them. Stiles orders one for himself and a beer for Derek. Derek smothers a smile when the bartender asks to see Stiles’ ID. He’s only 22, and he looks about 18. 

An hour later, Stiles has finished his hand grenade, taken a test tube shot from between the breasts of a street hawker—which cost $8 and probably was mostly Kool-Aid, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care, probably because Derek paid for it—dragged Derek into a novelty sex shop to look at overpriced dildos, and collected several strands of beads around his neck. The beads had been draped over him when they’d walked past a few gay clubs, and Stiles hadn’t done a thing to earn them except be his pretty self. He’d looked pleasantly surprised every time it had happened, and Derek starts to realize that Stiles has no idea he’s hot. 

*

Stiles has been in New Orleans about a week when he decides he should get serious about getting a job. Derek feels weirdly disappointed—once he starts collecting a paycheck, he’ll get his own place, and Derek has the sinking feeling that his apartment is going to feel too quiet without him. He’s never had a roommate before, so he shouldn’t miss what he’s mostly never had—and yet, he thinks he will. 

Stiles spends the morning putting in applications and handing out resumes, and he meets Derek for lunch at a little diner near the apartment. 

They order po boys—roast beef for Derek and shrimp for Stiles. They’re enormous, served with cole slaw and mounds of French fries. “How do people not get fat living here?” Stiles asks while they eat, shaking his head. Almost before the words are out, he stiffens, and he turns pink from his cheeks to the top of his ears. 

“It’s a problem,” Derek says dryly, raising an eyebrow as Stiles squirms. 

“Shit, I didn’t mean that the way it came out—“

“It’s okay,” Derek interrupts, knowing that if he doesn’t, Stiles will probably manage to put his foot farther into his mouth. Stiles nods, looking chagrined, and Derek tries to concentrate on the remaining fries on his plate. It’s a little hard to swallow now, though, as Stiles’ words keep ringing in his ear. 

Derek really doesn’t mind that he’s got a belly. He could do without the double chin that forms every time he looks down, but it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s okay. He’s content, mostly. But he can’t help but keep imagining himself through Stiles’ eyes. It hurts, seeing himself as Stiles must: his old teenage crush who’s now on the wrong side of thirty, put on a bunch of weight, living alone. 

Oh, and basically unemployed, unless you count managing the Hale millions as gainful employment. Which Derek does not. Jesus Christ. 

He’s about to crumple up his napkin and throw it over his unfinished fries, no longer in the mood for them, when Stiles pushes his plate toward Derek, where more than half of his po boy and most of his fries remain. “You want the rest? I can’t do it.”

Derek looks at him, trying to gauge his expression. Coming so quickly on the heels of the fat comment, the last thing he wants to do is illustrate for Stiles the fact that he can eat not one enormous platter of food but the better part of two. 

“Knock yourself out,” Stiles says, inching the plate forward a little more. “I’m gonna flag the waitress down and order a cup of coffee, anyway. Eat.” 

Derek does. He’s not sure why, really, except that Stiles looks so simultaneously guilty and hopeful at the same time, like his half-eaten shrimp po boy is some sort of peace offering. 

And, shit, it’s not like eating Stiles’ leftovers is a hardship or anything, although Derek is pretty uncomfortably full by the time he finishes all of it. He shifts surreptitiously in his seat, tugging at the waistband of his jeans and trying to make a little more room for himself to breathe. 

When they stand up to leave, Stiles’ eyes drop down to his belly a few times, and Derek wishes like hell it was winter, so he’d have an excuse to pull on a jacket and cover up a little. He feels bloated, a little embarrassed. 

They walk back to Derek’s place slowly, languid in the midday heat. Derek expects Stiles to have some plan for the afternoon cooked up—he’s been on the go almost constantly, with or without Derek, since he got here. 

He’s surprised, then, when Stiles nudges him with his shoulder as they trudge up the steps to his apartment. “So the job hunt was pretty unsuccessful. I think I’m gonna be a barista if I wanna live here, dude. It sucks. You got big plans this afternoon? Or can we, like, just sit on your couch and watch TV? Cause I could go for that.”

Derek blinks. “Yeah, we can do that,” he says. “Even if I had plans, _you_ could do that. You can make yourself at home, you know.”

“Company would be nice, though.”

Derek nods. When they get inside, Stiles disappears into the kitchen, rooting around in the fridge looking for sodas. In the time he’s gone, Derek settles on the couch and undoes the button on his overworked jeans, breathing a sigh of relief when the tabs part. He tugs on his t-shirt to make sure his belly is covered and leans back, trying to get comfortable. 

They spend the afternoon watching episode after episode of Orange is the New Black, and Derek wonders what the hell he did all day before Stiles barged into his life. 

*

“So I found this stuff in the Tulane archive about witchcraft and animals,” Stiles says, shoving some photocopies across the coffee table in Derek’s direction. “It’s from the 1890s, and people have interpreted it as being about familiars, but I’m not so sure.” Stiles’ eyes are bright, and Derek realizes just how much the kid enjoys this kind of research. He’d spent the last week or so in Special Collections at Tulane, coming home each evening with amusing stories about stern librarians and draconian rules. In order to access the materials, Stiles had to sit at a table facing the librarian, stash his stuff—including his cell phone and writing utensils—in a locker, and could only take notes with a soft lead pencil on paper the library provided. Stiles seems to be in his element. 

Derek picks up the photocopies, flipping through them as Stiles continues to talk, tugging excitedly at his hair and tapping his fingers on his thighs. “See, all the stuff about how the women suspected of witchcraft gained power from their ‘intimate connections to beasts’ right there? And then it’s mentioned again, too, on the next page? And then there’s that line about wolves? But there aren’t wolves in Louisiana, are there? I mean, even then? So it could be werewolves, right? Or were-somethings? And that would explain why the witches were so powerful here.”

Derek nods a few times, lets Stiles keep going. He’s obviously excited and convinced he’s on to something. Derek isn’t so sure—mostly because he just doesn’t want to think about any of this. He can’t admit it out loud, but the last thing he wants to do is thing about anything connected to werewolves, to witches, to the supernatural at all. 

“I mean, do we even know how powerful a coven would be if they were connected to a pack? Could werewolves _be_ witches? How would that work? You were already gone, but a coven came through Beacon Hills my senior year, and they did some stuff that we had no idea how to explain. Maybe…”

Derek’s stomach clenches. He’s not sure what’s making him so uncomfortable, except that he just really doesn’t want to think about this. 

Which is ridiculous. This is why Stiles is here. Not to sit around with Derek watching Netflix or wandering through New Orleans with him. Not to be Derek’s roommate and remind him what it’s like to be close to another person, to remind him what it’s like to have someone else’s stuff strewn about with your own, how comforting it might be to see someone else’s toothbrush in the bathroom. 

He’s here because this is what Stiles wants to do. And he’s doing it. And he’s going to get a call about a job any day, and he’s going to move out, and Derek is going to have to go back to his life. His life that was perfectly adequate a month ago and now seems absolutely empty. 

“Hard to say,” Derek finally offers, pushing the papers back across the table to Stiles. Stiles’ face falls a little bit, and Derek feels a stab of guilt. There’s no reason to be an asshole about this, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

“Yeah, it might be nothing,” Stiles says, looking a little downtrodden. 

“Long time ago, anyway.” 

Stiles nods, and then brightens a bit. “So are there a lot of werewolves here now? It’s weird, you haven’t even mentioned it, but for all I know, you’re running around howling at the moon with Cajun werewolves every month.”

“No.” Derek swallows, the knot in his stomach even bigger, his wolf suddenly restless, pacing underneath a very thin veneer of humanity. “I don’t—no.”

Stiles looks at him. “No, there aren’t a lot of werewolves here, or no, you don’t go running with them?” 

“Just—no.” Derek stands up, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’ll be back later. I have some stuff I need to take care of. The spare key’s under the mat. Take it if you leave.” 

He’s out the door before Stiles can respond. And if he spends the morning eating beignets and drinking café au lait because he’s avoiding Stiles and his apartment and anything that makes him think about being a werewolf? Well, that’s his own business. 

After the third order of beignets, the front of his shirt is dusted in powdered sugar and his stomach hurts—but his wolf is quiet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like the most indulgent fic in the world, because I am basically just writing a love letter to chubby Derek and New Orleans--two of my favorite things. Hope you guys like it, though. 
> 
> Your comments are making my life right now, too. Just so you know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek cooks, and Stiles makes a move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, kinksters; have some raging UST. <3

Stiles doesn’t ask Derek about anything wolf-related again until the full moon, when he feels like it’s a fair question. If you’re staying under the same roof with a werewolf, checking in about that sort of thing seems like a reasonable thing to do.

Still, Stiles is kind of nervous when he brings it up. After he’d asked Derek to look over his research and Derek had basically ran out the door, he’d realized pretty quickly that Derek is _not_ interested in discussing wolf shit. Or supernatural shit. Or anything remotely related. 

But, Stiles being Stiles, he asks anyway. “So what do you do on full moons?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, looking up from the Styrofoam carryout container on his lap. They’re eating lamb biryani from the kitschy Indian place down the street, and Stiles has to admit that it’s fucking delicious, although he hadn’t been very keen on the idea of eating lamb. Derek, wolf that he is, had been both confused and unimpressed by Stiles’ reservations. “I don’t go out and mutilate tourists, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, taking another bite. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, I mean—like, where do you go be a wolf when you live in the middle of the city?”

“That’s a personal question to ask.”

“Is it? I’ve seen you wolfed out. I’ve seen your full shift. I’ve seen you half dead from wolfsbane, trying to get me to cut off your fucking arm. Surely I can ask where you go and do your wolfy thing, can’t I?” Stiles knows his pulse is probably ratcheting up—he’s not afraid of Derek, but he has a healthy respect for the fact that the man is also a big-ass predator sometimes. 

Derek sighs. “I go out of the city, into the swamp, if I want to run.” 

“Oh, that’s awesome! Man, are you going tonight? Oh, shit, can I come?”

“No.”

“Aw, why not? I’ve never seen a swamp.”

“You can go take a fan boat tour like everyone else.”

“But I’d rather go with you!”

“I can’t run if I’m making sure you don’t get eaten by alligators,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles swallows. “Shit, is that a thing?”

“That’s a thing.” 

“Oh. Well. Are you going out there tonight?”

Derek shrugs, taking the last bite of his meal and closing the Styrofoam container. “Hadn’t decided yet. It’s not a problem, if I don’t go. I don’t have to shift.”

Stiles nods. “Okay. Well go, if you want. Or not. Whatever.” He looks down at his own meal—more than half of the biryani is still there, and there’s a container of samosas on the coffee table, along with some naan. “You want this?” he asks.

Derek looks at him, that strange, unreadable expression he always gets when Stiles offers him leftovers. 

“Go for it. Aren’t you guys all starving to death at the full moon, anyway?”

That seems to tip the scales, and Derek takes the container from him. 

And yeah, so that has become a thing. A…thing. Stiles isn’t sure what he’s doing—the first couple of times it happened, it was a legitimate mistake. The portions are huge here, and he was genuinely surprised by it the first few times they’d gone out somewhere. After that, though—well. Stiles might have sort of continued the trend, just for the sheer joy of passing his plate over to Derek and watching Derek consider it a moment and then dig in. Eating off of Stiles’ plate. Which, yeah, doesn’t really _mean_ anything, it’s not like he’s eating out of Stiles’ hand. 

(Oh Christ, Stiles wants Derek to eat out of his hand.) 

But still. It’s weirdly intimate, somehow, watching Derek finish all of his meals for him. Watching out of the corner of his eye as Derek shifts in his seat, adjusts his jeans, sometimes _pops the fucking button open_ after he’s eaten his meal and most of Stiles’ too. 

Stiles feels guilty as fuck about it. It’s—okay, it’s weird at best and manipulative at worst, even if he’s not forcing Derek to do anything. He’s still getting way the fuck off on it, jerking off with furious, guilty enthusiasm every night. 

And here’s the thing—Stiles has pretty much never dated a guy who wasn’t significantly bigger than him. Which is sort of not hard, given that Stiles is skinny as fuck, but it’s also been a pretty purposeful thing. But this is the first time Stiles has had this compulsion to give someone food. Like, sure, his last boyfriend had been built quite a bit like Derek, and Stiles had liked it, and he’d even learned to cook a few things just for the pleasure of feeding the man. But not—not like this. Not like some shameful fucking secret that gives Stiles raging hard-ons every time he lets himself think about it. 

And Derek has no idea. Not a clue. Hell, he probably thinks Stiles is turned _off_ by weight gain, after his stupid remark about gaining weight while living in New Orleans. He hadn’t meant anything by it at all—just some word vomit that had fallen out as he was thinking about how much food was a part of the culture here. All the same, the moment the words had passed his lips, he’d been ready to jump in the Mississippi and drown himself. 

So yeah. Everything is just coming up aces. He’s developed a painful and bizarrely kinky crush on the man he’s living with. He’s also yet to find a job and is rapidly running through his meager savings account. It’s been a great summer so far. 

Perhaps the most frustrating part about all of this is that Stiles had learned to flirt in college—at least a little, at least somewhat successfully. He managed to get laid and go on dates and have men touch his dick fairly regularly, thank you very much. Now, though, it’s like he’s sixteen again. It’s like seeing Derek just catapulted him right back into that place—right back into his stupid, painful crush. Except now it’s even worse, because Stiles isn’t a somewhat sexually confused virgin who doesn’t even know what he wants. Stiles knows _exactly_ what he wants from Derek now. He wants, frankly, to climb him like a tree. He wants Derek to shove him into walls and doors and tables and counters, wants Derek to make Stiles feel small against him, under him, cradled in his thick arms. He wants to put his hands all over Derek’s big belly, preferably after feeding him something ridiculously decadent and exotic, like all the food Derek has introduced him to here. 

He wants all of that, and he has no idea how to make it happen. 

*

It’s evening when Derek brings up the full moon again. Stiles has just sort of assumed that Derek is going out by himself to run it off, so it takes him by surprise. 

“Do you really want to see the swamp?”

Stiles looks up from his laptop. “Hell yes! I get to go with you?”

“Not tonight. I’ll stay in tonight—but I’ll take you out another time, when it’s not a full moon. It really is pretty. You’ll probably like it.” Derek’s voice is gruff. 

“Yeah, that’s awesome, man. Absolutely.” Stiles grins. “So what are we doing tonight, then?”

Derek shrugs. “I’ll probably stay in. Easier that way. You don’t have to sit here with me, though. Go do your thing.”

God. Fucking Derek. Like Stiles wants to go out without him. “Nah, man, I’ll hang out here with you. Uh—if you don’t care, that is.” He pauses. “Too bad you can’t get drunk. Could just sit on the couch and get buzzed. Seriously, I’d be fine with it.”

Derek looks up, his expression considering. “I’ve got wolfsbane beer,” he finally says. 

“Seriously?” Stiles perks up. “Let’s do this! Oh, but—I mean, is that fine on the full moon? Please don’t get drunk and eat me. That would be—that would be not good.”

“I’ll try to resist the urge.”

*

Stiles expects them to get carryout. They eat out most days, at least once—which, yeah, there’s no way he could afford it, but Derek pays for it and looks annoyed when Stiles tries to protest. Tonight, though, Derek says he doesn’t want to go out, so instead they walk to the Rouse’s down the street and get groceries—shrimp, pasta, heavy fucking cream, because apparently this is his life, and Derek is trying to kill him with sexual frustration.

“Can you cook?” Derek asks when they get back home. 

Stiles considers the question seriously, cracking open a bottle of Abita for himself and one of the homebrews for Derek. “Sort of. I mean—I learned, a little, the last time I was dating someone.” Inexplicably, he can feel his cheeks heat. 

Derek looks up at that, and Stiles hands off the bottle of wolfsbane beer to him. “I mean, I learned to do easy stuff. Spaghetti, lasagna, shit like that, where you get credit for cooking, but it’s not actually all that hard? And Brandon couldn’t cook at all, so he was always impressed.” 

It’s the first time Stiles has mentioned ever having had a boyfriend before. He knows Derek knows he’s gay—it’s been common knowledge for years. Just like he knows that Derek has dated men and—obviously—women, and doesn’t seem to express a strong preference one way or the other. Still, talking about it like this feels—well, Stiles isn’t sure how it feels, but it’s something. It’s a place he and Derek have never really gone before. 

If it feels significant to Derek, too, he hides it, just nodding. 

Derek puts Stiles in charge of vegetables—which is to say, Derek apparently doesn’t put much faith in Stiles’ abilities in the kitchen, and has him shred lettuce for a Caesar salad, an almost offensively easy task. Meanwhile, Derek does everything else, and Stiles watches. 

Other than this meal, the only other times Derek has cooked have been on the grill—burgers one night, spicy Manda sausages another. Stuff that tastes good, but doesn’t really count as cooking. More like an “I have a penis, so I can put meat on a fire” kind of thing. Now, though, he’s sautéing shrimp and stirring a tomato-based cream sauce, and, frankly, it’s the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen.

Since they’re in for the night, Derek has deigned to wear something besides his ridiculously tight jeans. Instead, he’s in black basketball shorts, slung low on his hips, and a plain white t-shirt, pulled a little taut over the beer belly that sits over the snug waistband of his shorts. His hair is messy from where he’s run his fingers through it, and his feet are bare. He looks so ridiculously domestic, so _at ease_ , stirring a crème sauce and drinking beer, belly brushing gently against the front of the stove. 

It’s a version of Derek Stiles has never seen before. Could never have even imagined before, back in Beacon Hills. 

The meal is nice enough that it seems sort of criminal to eat it on the couch—penne pasta with tomato basil cream sauce and fat Gulf shrimp, a salad, big chunks of French bread, toasted and dripping with garlic butter. So they don’t, sitting at the table instead. Derek grabs the remote and flips on the TV, though, and the sounds of the LSU game drift in from the living room. 

“Do you watch football?” Stiles asks, listening vaguely as the announcer highlights the game. 

“Not really. I always liked basketball more. But this is the first game of the season, and you have to at least know how LSU and the Saints are doing, or people will think something’s wrong with you.” Derek shrugs. “This game should be awful—they’re playing some little school no one’s ever heard of. The Tigers could play their third string, all drunk, and probably still win.”

“But we’re going to listen to the game anyway.”

“We’re in Louisiana, aren’t we?”

Stiles grins. Just like it made him a little weak in the knees, watching Derek cook, it sort of takes his breath away how at home Derek seems to feel here, in this city that is not actually his own. He’d never seemed to feel this way about Beacon Hills, despite it being the place his family had lived for generations. 

Of course, his home had burned to the ground in Beacon Hills, his family mostly murdered. Maybe that had a way of souring you on a place, even if your roots were there. 

The food is fantastic, and Stiles says so, very sincerely impressed with Derek’s abilities in the kitchen. Derek shrugs off the praise, but he relaxes, and he’s on his third wolfsbane beer by the time he fills his plate for the third time. 

Yeah, the third time. Stiles is trying desperately to play it cool, cracking open another beer of his own, just to have something to do with his hands. Derek is eating with a purpose, not just sort of falling into it because he’s finishing Stiles’ leftovers, but seeming to be purposely stuffing himself. He has to be beyond full at this point—the pasta is heavy on its own, and the sauce was made with butter _and_ cream. Stiles knows because he watched Derek make it with an eagle eye. 

Derek shifts a little in his seat, his hand disappearing for a moment, and Stiles knows he’s tugging at his waistband, trying to make more room for his belly. 

For fuck’s sake. The man is trying to kill him. 

When he’s finally finished, Stiles jumps up, volunteering to clear the table and do the dishes. Derek mounts a rather perfunctory protest, but Stiles can tell he doesn’t really want to have to get up and do any work—he’s leaned back in his chair, one hand resting unconsciously on the side of his belly—which, Stiles is pretty sure, is actually _visibly_ distended. 

“Nah, it’s only fair,” Stiles says, waving Derek off toward the couch. “Go sit. I’ll be there in a minute.” 

And if Stiles watches when Derek pulls himself up, looking slow and lazy and _full_ \--well, there’s no rule against looking. 

When he finishes the dishes, he grabs another beer for each of them and heads into the living room. 

Derek is sprawled the length of the couch, belly stretched tight against the cotton of his t-shirt, muscular arms tucked behind his neck, idly watching the game. Stiles about drops the beers he’s holding. He looks fucking gorgeous, and all Stiles can think of are the National Geographic specials he’s seen about male lions. They’re huge—powerful and strong, terrifying in their capacity for violence, but all they do most of the time is sleep in the shade, wait for the females to bring back a kill. That’s exactly what Derek looks like—a sated, lazy predator, lulled and full but still dangerous, power simmering under an overindulged surface. 

It’s probably the single sexiest thing Stiles has ever fucking seen.

Derek looks up, lazily pulls himself into a sitting position so that there’s room for Stiles to sit down next to him. Stiles hands off Derek’s beer to him, taking a healthy pull of his own, and plops down on the couch—a little closer to Derek than is strictly necessary, but not so close that it’s weird. Probably. 

They drink in companionable silence for a while, watching the game that is, as Derek predicted, an absolute slaughter. 

When Stiles opens his fifth beer—and hands another to Derek, as well—he decides he’s had enough football. 

“I’m bored,” he announces. 

Derek looks at him, his expression slightly concerned. “Do you want to go out or something?” His hand skims over his swollen belly again, and Stiles is pretty sure he has no idea he’s even doing it. “I’m probably gonna stay in tonight, but you should go—you don’t have to sit here—“

“No, no, I don’t want to go anywhere. Just…” Stiles shrugs. Fuck it. “I’m about half-drunk and I’m sick of football.” 

“What do you want to do?” 

Stiles raises his shoulders in another elaborate shrug, letting himself sink into his buzz, letting it loosen his lips. “Entertain me, Sourwolf. Tell me why you even are letting me crash here. Which, by the way—this was supposed to be two weeks, and I’ve been here almost a month now, and I’m still unemployed. I’m a terrible houseguest.”

“You haven’t been terrible.”

“I contribute nothing and haven’t established any timeline for leaving.”

Derek is silent for a moment, and then his lips curl into what Stiles recognizes as a smirk. “You’re young and pretty. I suspect you could crash in just about any apartment in New Orleans, if you tried. You’re not exactly a hardship.”

Stiles blinks. _What?_ Hold the fucking phone. “Pretty?” he echoes, his voice squeaking a little. 

Derek smiles again, that amused little smirk that Stiles hasn’t seen very often—if ever—on him before. He doesn’t look over at Stiles, just takes a drink, still facing the television. “Pretty.”

Because Stiles is Stiles, he reacts to this the only way he knows how: vehement disagreement. “I am not _pretty_. I’m not a _girl_.” He flails his arms a bit, takes another drink and prepares to continue, but Derek cuts him off.

“Definitely not a girl.” He flicks his eyes over to Stiles, and _dear god in heaven_ , gives Stiles a quick up-and-down before looking back at the game. “Definitely pretty.” 

Stiles squawks, almost spilling his beer. “I could be handsome,” he says, just for the sake of arguing. 

“You could be,” Derek agrees easily. “You’re not, though. Pretty.” 

Holy shit. Derek is a little bit—drunk? Stiles has never really seen him like this before, voice warm and a little lazy, enunciation just the slightest bit blurred. 

Stiles swallows, wanting with everything in him for this to continue. If this were anyone but Derek, he’d probably be in their lap by now, confident and a little slutty, knowing exactly where this was headed. But it’s not anyone else, it’s Derek, and he can’t quite tell if he’s reading what’s actually there, or what he so desperately wants to be there. 

“Pretty, huh?” He swallows. “You get to be handsome, and I get stuck with pretty?”

Derek snorts, still looking at the game instead of him. “Didn’t say anything about me.”

“Well you’re hot, but you’re definitely not pretty, sooo….” Stiles trails off, shifting on the couch until his whole body is facing Derek, close enough that he can feel Derek’s body heat. 

Derek glances at him, shrugging, one hand dropping to his belly again. “Not quite what I used to be,” he mutters.

Fuck it. Stiles will charge right the fuck unto that breach. “Better,” he says, looking Derek dead in the eyes. 

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, and Stiles can’t read his expression. 

“So much better,” Stiles continues, figuring even as he opens his mouth that he can thank that fifth beer for everything he’s about to say. “Dude. So much.”

Derek pats his belly again, purposely this time. “More isn’t necessarily better,” he says, and Jesus fucking Christ, he _wobbles_ his belly against his hand, and Stiles is pretty sure he dies a little inside. 

“ _Dude._ Yeah, it kind of is. Why do you think I give you my leftovers every fucking day?”

Derek’s eyebrows are somewhere around his hairline, and Stiles rushes to continue. “Not, like, in a creepy way—I mean, I’m not trying to secretly feed you—obviously, it’s not a secret, right?” He’s babbling, and Derek’s face is inscrutable, a little bit frozen. 

“Okay, so yeah, what I mean is just—you look hot as fuck, okay? And I would totally feed you whatever you wanted. Not in a creepy way. Just to reiterate that.”

Derek is _still_ silent, just looking at him, wide-eyed. 

Stiles blinks, then gulps the last of his beer and shakes his head. “So, like—just to be clear. There’ s a carton of ice cream in your freezer and I would probably die happy if you ate it and then we had sex.”

Dear fucking god. Too far, too far, too far. So this was fun while it lasted. Derek’s going to kill him. 

“Go get it.” 

“ _What?_ ”

“The ice cream. Go get it.” Derek’s voice is a little strangled, deeper than it usually is. 

Oh holy shit this _is happening._

Stiles is pretty sure he’s never moved as fast as he does getting that fucking ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, guys. I'm enjoying the crap out of this 'verse--hope you are, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's literally all sex. That's the whole chapter. But fear not, loyal readers: the plot (such that it is) returns in a big way in the next chapter. So enjoy the porn while you can, I guess?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come see me on tumblr: [missjanedoeeyes](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com)

Stiles scrambles onto the couch, ice cream and spoon in hand, and he’s pretty sure his whole body is vibrating. He has never wanted something as much as he wants this right now.

Derek is leaned back, legs sprawled out ahead of him, belly prominent in his lap. He looks…watchful, like he’s waiting to see what Stiles is going to do. 

Which, okay, Stiles isn’t exactly sure what the fuck he’s supposed to do. He knows what he _wants_ to do—straddle Derek and feed him ice cream until it’s gone, or Derek’s groaning because his belly hurts, or both—but he’s not sure what he’s _allowed_ to do. 

In the face of uncertainty, Stiles falls back on his old standby, excessive talking. “I put it in your microwave for a few seconds, so it’s soft,” he says, brandishing the carton in Derek’s direction. “Um, so, how do you—uh, how do you want—“

Derek cuts him off. “What do _you_ want, Stiles?” 

“I want to sit in your lap and feed you ice cream.” 

Derek’s lip curls a little in something that might be a smile, and he makes a laconic “go ahead” gesture in the direction of his lap. 

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He scoops up a spoonful of the ice cream, plain vanilla but a fancy brand, home-churned and organic and all-natural, some real Whole Foods shit. 

His hand shakes a little bit as he holds out the spoon. He’s never done anything like this, and it feels, suddenly, so fucking intimate. He understands, on one level, that Derek is the one who’s being put in a vulnerable position here. In a very real way, Derek’s the one whose body is being fetishized or objectified or whatever the fuck Stiles is doing, and Derek’s the one who’s doing this physical thing that has real, actual, bodily repercussions. Stiles gets that. But it’s vulnerable and scary for him, too, admitting to this weird desire, letting Derek see how much he wants it, how much it fucking wrecks him. 

Derek leans forward just a little bit, wraps his mouth around the spoon, and Stiles gasps. He can’t help it, couldn’t have stopped that sharp little intake of breath if his life had depended on it. “Oh fuck, Derek,” he breathes. 

“Yeah.” Derek just nods, and Stiles brings up the spoon again. 

A few more bites, and Stiles is having to put all of his concentration into _not_ jerking his hips forward, just a little, just that tiny bit that would let him press his aching fucking cock into Derek’s belly. Derek’s big, swollen belly that is pushed tight against the cotton of his tee shirt. 

He must be doing a bad job of not seeming distracted, because Derek takes the spoon out of Stiles’ hand and gets a bite himself—which, dear fucking god, that might actually be _hotter_ than Stiles doing it for him, because Derek looks so fucking calm, so at ease—almost _practiced_ , like maybe eating expensive melty ice cream out of the carton on the couch is something he does on the regular—and fuck, Stiles is just torn apart all over again, watching him. 

Derek licks the spoon clean and then sets it in the carton Stiles is still holding. “What do you want, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. “This—uh, I want, this is what I want—“

Derek shakes his head, looking up at Stiles with an expression that Stiles can’t quite place. “What _else_ do you want?” His gaze is absolutely steady, has Stiles pinned even though Derek is the one spread out underneath him, fat and lazy and full. 

Stiles shrugs helplessly, feeling like he somehow lost control of the situation, if he ever had it. “I want—I want you to take your shirt off. I want—I want—“

“You want to touch my gut?” Derek’s eyebrows are high, but not the highest Stiles has ever seen them—this is more of a Questioning Eyebrow than an I Am Shocked and Appalled Eyebrow. 

Just the word out of Derek’s mouth is enough that Stiles’ hips judder a little bit. 

“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you,” Derek says, still looking so fucking calm. 

“I want you to take this off,” Stiles says, tugging breathlessly at Derek’s shirt. “I want to—want to touch you. God, so fucking bad.”

Derek leans forward a little bit, pushing his belly against Stiles, eliciting a gasp. Derek pulls the hem of his shirt up, slow and a little lazy, not exactly a strip tease—it’s not purposeful enough for that—but _lazy_ , like even this much movement is too much when he’d rather just lie back. He pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, leaning back down with a little sigh, a hand brushing against the side of his belly. 

His belly that Stiles has been fantasizing about since the moment he saw Derek at the airport. His belly that sits over the elastic waistband of his shorts, tight and round, swollen, so fucking perfect, and Stiles can’t help but just stare. 

Derek laughs, this low little huff of air that makes his belly jiggle just a little heartbreaking bit, and Stiles snaps his eyes up to Derek’s. 

Derek holds out his hand. “You should give me that,” he says, gesturing for the ice cream. Stiles does, and Derek lifts one side of his mouth in a ghost of a smirk. “Go on then. Touch it. Touch me.”

Stiles’ hips roll forward, and his dick actually fucking hurts in his jeans—but he ignores it. That’s not important now. The only thing that matters is getting his hands on Derek. 

He reaches both hands out, skimming them lightly across the top of Derek’s belly, where it’s taut and swollen, firm. “Oh, fuck, Derek. Fuck.” Stiles can’t seem to keep his mouth from running, but he also can’t form coherent thoughts. 

Derek settles back further into the couch, shifting under Stiles a little bit, and Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles can feel Derek’s cock under his ass, constricted not in the fucking least by the nylon shorts he’s wearing. 

Derek’s hard cock. Which means Stiles isn’t alone in this—whatever the fuck this is. Derek likes it, too. 

Derek is just watching him, spooning up a bite of ice cream now and then, this satisfied looking little smirk on his face, somehow a little predatory even though he’s laid out underneath Stiles and looks, frankly, too bloated and lazy to move. 

Seriously, those big-ass male lions in the National Geographic specials. That’s Derek.

Stiles pushes a little bit on Derek’s belly, right at the top, where it’s roundest. It feels like a water balloon, like a drum, taut and maybe a little uncomfortable. At the pressure, Derek groans a little bit, but he doesn’t do anything, just puts the spoon in his mouth and watches. 

“So full,” Stiles breathes out, pushing against Derek’s gut again. “Does it hurt?”

Derek hums around a mouthful of ice cream. Swallows, sets the spoon down in the carton. “A little. Good, though.”

“It has to be good, you do this to yourself all the time,” Stiles babbles, rubbing little circles on Derek’s belly. He blushes a little, realizing what he’s said, but Derek doesn’t seem offended.

“You’re always giving me your food,” Derek shoots back, picking up the spoon again. The ice cream, Stiles notices, is almost gone. And yeah, there really wasn’t that much there to begin with—maybe a pint or so left, but still, on top of that huge meal—not to mention all the Indian carryout earlier? Derek has to be painfully fucking full. 

Stiles smiles just a little bit, relaxing enough to tease. “I didn’t give you anything tonight, buddy.” He runs his hands lower, down to the curve of Derek’s belly that sits over his waistband, and _ohJesusfuck_ , the lower part of Derek’s belly is so fucking _soft_ , and Stiles’ hips snap forward again, pressing his dick—his poor, trapped dick—against the bottom of Derek’s belly. 

“That was all you,” he continues, pinching at the soft lower curve of Derek’s gut, bouncing it a little so the whole thing undulates. “Three plates. I had nothing to do with that.”

Derek groans a little, shifting as Stiles jostles his stomach. “Full moon,” he says. 

Stiles blinks, tearing his gaze away from Derek’s big belly to look up just as Derek takes the last bite of ice cream and sets the carton down beside them on the couch. “Full moon?”

Derek shrugs a little, bringing one hand up and placing it on the side of his belly, next to Stiles’. “If I don’t shift, this helps.”

Stiles is immediately fascinated—and blindingly turned on. “Stuffing yourself senseless helps you not shift?” he asks, feeling like he’s free to be blunt, since Derek doesn’t seem to mind. “Is that how you got f—is that how you—“ he stumbles, and Derek huffs laughter again. 

“How I got fat?” he interrupts.

Stiles blushes furiously. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, but you meant to,” Derek says, grinning. “Yeah, that’s how I got fat. That and New Orleans, I guess.” 

“Good,” Stiles mumbles. He means so much more than that— _good_ that you figured out a way to control the shift that isn’t your own fucking rage, _good_ that you found a place that makes you content, makes you relax, _good_ that you are so fucking beautiful like this that it hurts. But he can’t find the words for any of that. He hopes Derek knows, though. “Good.”

Stiles leans back a little, looks Derek up and down. His eyes—and hands—had gone to Derek’s gut like a magnet, but he is gorgeous all over, especially like this. He’s _big_ and soft but still strong, his arms and shoulders still impressively large and heavily muscled. His chest is solid-looking, but his pecs are blurred under a couple layers of pudge. Still strong, just a little soft, too. Stiles reaches out, pinches at one, then runs his hand over to Derek’s side, where the skin creases a little, down to his perfect little love handles that Stiles has been eyeballing every time he walks behind Derek since he got to New Orleans. 

He lets his eyes wander up to Derek’s face, his full cheeks and the pudge at his jawline that probably turns into a double chin when he looks down, even though his beard—his fucking sexy beard—camouflages it. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Stiles says, apropos of nothing except that he’s finally getting to look at Derek, really look at him. 

Derek gives him that little smile again, not quite full blown, no teeth, just a curl of his upper lip. “And you’re pretty.” 

Stiles inhales, trying to work up the nerve to lean over and kiss him. Before he can, though, Derek wraps a big hand around the back of his neck and tugs him down, presses Stiles’ mouth against his own. 

Generally speaking, the guys Stiles has dated have liked to be in charge—at least nominally—in the bedroom. He’s always been attracted to men who are bigger than him, men who can throw him around a little bit, maybe, and that dynamic has sort of colored all of his sexual interactions. He’s always been content for his partners to take the lead, and they’ve always wanted to do it. 

That said, he’s used to letting his partners control a kiss—but kissing Derek is still an entirely new enterprise. From the way that Derek is cupping the back of his neck to the way that he’s biting at Stiles’ bottom lip, he’s controlling every aspect of what’s happening between them. It’s heady, feeling all of Derek’s coiled power and strength below him, against him. 

Stiles pushes forward a little, shamelessly humping against Derek’s belly, losing himself in the kiss. 

Derek keeps one hand on Stiles’ neck, directing him a little, making him feel almost pinned in place, but his other hand slides down Stiles’ back, grips his ass, and Stiles moans against Derek’s mouth. 

Derek slips his hand down the back of Stiles’ jeans, inside his boxers. Cups his ass first, then slides one finger between his cheeks, circling his hole, and Stiles groans, rocking back against Derek’s hand, forward into his belly, feeling absolutely undone. Derek keeps it up, putting slight pressure on Stiles’ hole, never really trying anything, just _there_ , driving Stiles crazy. 

Derek finally pulls back, looks up at Stiles, a little rueful. “You gonna be offended if you have to ride me?” He glances down at his full belly. “I think it’s all I can handle tonight.” 

Stiles tries not to moan and fails miserably. “Fuck, Derek. No, not offended. Jesus. No. That’s, that’s fine.” 

Derek grins, apparently amused by Stiles’ inability to string together a coherent thought. “Bed?” 

“Yes.” Stiles is on his feet instantly, and he can’t help but watch as Derek pulls himself up, heavy and slow. 

In the bedroom, Derek pushes down the elastic of his shorts and tugs them off, letting them drop to the floor along with his briefs. His dick is hard, bobbing up against his belly, and Stiles thinks that now he knows what it means to be weak in the knees. 

“Get undressed,” Derek tells him, pulling a bottle of lube from the nightstand before climbing into bed and settling himself against the headboard, one hand cradling his belly, the other sliding down to his cock. 

Fuck. Stiles does exactly as he’s told, pulling his shirt over his head and shucking his jeans and boxers in record time. He feels shy, almost, a little unsure of himself, and he hesitates, looking up at Derek as he gets on the bed. 

“What do you want, Stiles? Tell me what you want,” Derek prompts, like he recognizes Stiles’ hesitation. 

Stiles swallows, reaches a hand out to grope at Derek’s belly. “I want—I want to blow you. And then—then ride you.” 

Derek raises his eyebrows, gives that little half smirk again. “Do it, then.”

So Stiles does, keeping one hand locked tight on Derek’s belly while he goes down on him. It takes him a minute to get a rhythm going, but soon Derek’s hips are moving, lifting in short little truncated bursts, as if he’s trying his best not to shove his cock up into Stiles’ throat. Stiles relaxes, takes him as deeply as he can—which still isn’t all of Derek’s cock. Jesus, Derek is big _everywhere_. “C’mere,” Derek says suddenly, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up. “Gonna make me come like that, kiddo.” 

Fuck. Stiles would never have imagined a situation where being called “kiddo” would do it for him, but hearing it from Derek Hale is apparently that situation, because his dick jumps and his heartbeat speeds up. 

“Fuck, Derek. Yes. Fuck me.” 

Derek gives him a slow, lazy little half-smile. “Fuck yourself on me.” 

Stiles straddles his thighs, watching as Derek slicks his fingers before pulling Stiles down for another kiss. 

“You’ve done this before, right?” Derek asks, sliding one slick finger against Stiles’ entrance without pushing. 

Stiles snorts, a little offended. “Of course, Jesus. Just do it.”

Derek buries a laugh in Stiles’ throat, kissing him roughly and sliding a finger inside him all at once. “Sorry, sorry. Not a high school kid anymore, I get it.” 

“I can take it, just hurry,” Stiles says, meaning to sound annoyed, but probably just sounding desperate. Which he is. 

Derek acquiesces, adding a second finger and scissoring, brushing his prostate only occasionally. It’s clearly methodical preparation, but Stiles grinds back against his hand anyway, enjoying the burn of it, the invasion. When he can’t stand it another second, he grabs Derek’s wrist. “Enough. I’m ready.”

Derek scoots down a little bit, slicking his cock with more lube before gripping Stiles’ by the hips and positioning him. Stiles lines himself up and slides down a little, wincing. “Oh, oh, oh,” he pants, unable to stop himself. 

“That’s it, kiddo, easy,” Derek soothes, and there’s that word again, fuck. 

Stiles slides down a little farther, more, more, until he’s fully seated against Derek, feeling almost pulled apart. He stops, waits until he catches his breath, until his body starts to adjust. He slides his hands over Derek’s fat belly, not sure where to put them, knowing he can’t brace himself against Derek’s overly full gut. He settles for his shoulders instead, steadying himself and starting to move. 

“Good, so good,” Derek says, his hands still guiding Stiles’ hips, setting the pace even when Stiles tries to take control. 

Stiles is moaning, can hear himself a little bit, even if he can’t control it. He’s grinding forward with every filthy slide up Derek’s cock, pushing his own dick into Derek’s plush lower belly. Derek’s tummy feels wet almost instantly, and Stiles knows he must be leaking precome everywhere. 

“Oh, fuck, Derek,” he babbles, not even aiming for coherence. 

“Tell me how it feels,” Derek says, and it’s almost a command but not quite. Coupled with the way Derek is holding his hips, pulling him up and down on his cock, it might as well be—Stiles feels completely in his thrall. 

“Feels so good,” Stiles singsongs, breathless. “Wanted you to fuck me for so long. Since the minute you picked me up at the airport. Before then. Always, Derek. Jesus, fuck.” Stiles takes a few breaths, and Derek mumbles words of encouragement. “Wanted you so bad, Derek. You got so—so big, so fucking sexy, just wanted to let you fuck me. Ugh, want to be under you next time, want to feel you on me.” On some level, Stiles is aware that he’s just made a reference to them fucking in the future—a future that has in no way been guaranteed, or even discussed—but Derek doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, he just pulls Stiles down harder and faster, impaling him on his cock. 

“Gonna do that, too, kiddo. Gonna pin you under me. Make you feel so good.” 

Stiles’ eyes drift shut, Derek’s filthy voice washing over him. He’s on top, but Derek is in control of this, too, positioning Stiles and pulling him down, controlling each thrust until Stiles is nearly undone.

“I’m gonna come,” Stiles gasps out suddenly, his orgasm sneaking up on him. 

“Then come,” Derek says. “Come on my gut like you want to.” 

And that’s all it takes, those words. Stiles doesn’t even have to reach for his dick. Just spills against Derek’s soft lower belly.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” Stiles mumbles, incoherent. 

“Shhh, almost, baby,” Derek says, gripping Stiles’ hips harder and pulling him down sharp and quick. When he comes, he’s silent except for his breathing, harsh and loud in the quiet room. 

Stiles shudders as he rides it out, his own orgasm leaving him overly sensitive, and the feeling of Derek coming inside him a little overwhelming, foreign. He’s never been fucked bare before—the only reason he let Derek was because wolves can’t carry diseases. There’s no need for protection, but until Derek fills him full of come, Stiles hadn’t really considered how intimate it would be. They’re messy, come everywhere between them both, but when Derek pulls him down, Stiles allows himself to be tugged down into place against Derek’s side. They can clean up later. 

*

The next morning, Derek slips out of bed before Stiles wakes up, tugging on boxer briefs and nothing else before padding into the kitchen. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, filtered through the live oak outside—a beautiful late summer Louisiana morning, bright and hot, pushing ninety degrees at 8:00 AM. 

He makes coffee, the strong chicory kind that he loves and Stiles tolerates, always wrinkling his nose whenever he drinks it. The problem is that Stiles wants to drink it black, and chicory coffee is made for cream and sugar, plenty of both. 

Derek hasn’t taken his coffee black since he left Beacon Hills. 

Fuck. Derek sits down at the island counter, looking into his coffee cup like it might contain answers. He slept like the dead last night—probably because he was stuffed too full to move and then well-fucked on top of it. But now, in the harsh light of day, things don’t seem quite as simple.

Derek looks down at his stomach, spilling unapologetically over his waistband. He’s fat. And truly, he’s okay with it. He’s never had trouble getting laid, even carrying the belly he has now. Stiles isn’t the first twinky little thing to want Derek to manhandle him, want to feel small up against him. But he _is_ the first to be attracted specifically to Derek’s fat. Not just his big frame, but his big belly. 

Derek isn’t sure if that fact is significant or not, but he can’t quite seem to get it out of his head. 

*

Two days later, Stiles gets a phone call from the little coffee shop on Magazine Street, offering him a job. Derek congratulates him, says all the right things. He isn’t sure why it makes him feel a little sick to his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me, or is Derek calling Stiles kiddo the hottest thing in the world? Hmm? It's just me isn't it? IDEK, once I got the idea in my head, it just fucking killed me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes encounter a fortune teller, Stiles gets a call from Beacon Hills, and Derek can't button his jeans. Oh, and Stiles buys tacky tourist crap. Because he's Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a transitional chapter--I feel like it's a "putting the pieces on the board" kind of thing. I guess that happens when you ruin perfectly good kink with something that sort of wants to be a plot. Sorry guys. This is why we can't have nice things.

“It’s sort of creepy, isn’t it?”

Derek looks out the window, where Stiles is pointing at the cypress trees sticking up out of the water. He’s used to seeing them, dead and skeletal, looming out of the swamp. Stiles is right, though. There’s a terrible sort of beauty about it. It’s evening, and beyond the cypress trees, the smokestacks of the refineries—a mark of the oil industry in the Gulf—are backlit in the setting sun. The view from the interstate is eerie, the ancient swamp and the industrialized South both forced into the same picturesque snapshot.

“Pretty at the same time,” Stiles adds, and Derek smiles a little at hearing his own thoughts aloud. Stiles is his opposite in so many respects—it always takes him by pleasant surprise when they line up on something. 

They’d spent the last few hours roaming through the Louisiana swamplands, at Stiles’ insistence. Derek hadn’t really minded playing tour guide now that it wasn’t the full moon—even when Stiles had insisted that they stop at a travesty of a roadside tourist trap at one point so he could buy a varnished alligator claw on a stick to send home to Scott. 

Purchasing the claw had led Stiles to the realization that he had yet to eat alligator while he was here, and he’d then insisted that they get some. Immediately. So Derek had dutifully found a little diner along I-10 on the way back into New Orleans, and they’d ordered two appetizers worth of the stuff—one dish blackened and the other fried—along with big platters of red beans and rice. 

Stiles had picked at the alligator, eaten a couple pieces, and then wrinkled his nose up and passed it over to Derek. “I thought it was supposed to taste like chicken,” he’d said mournfully. 

And so Derek had found himself eating the two orders of alligator himself along with all of his meal and some of Stiles’. Now, as Derek drives home with a pleasantly full belly and Stiles bounces happily beside him in the passenger’s seat, occasionally reaching over with his alligator claw and tapping Derek on the leg, he wonders if the kid hadn’t hustled him a little, just to see him eat that much. 

Derek shifts a little in his seat. If so, it’s okay with him. 

*

Stiles has been working at Coffee Call for two weeks before Derek goes into the place, even though Stiles has been telling him to come in since he started. Derek gets there a few minutes before his shift ends and orders an iced coffee, settling into a corner booth to wait. 

Instead of the hipster mecca that most coffee shops are, Coffee Call is more like a mom and pop enterprise, with kitschy floral upholstery and vintage Formica tabletops. There’s not a huge selection of beverages, and nothing comes in a venti size. It’s relentlessly quaint, and the croissants that Stiles has been bringing home are fantastic. Stiles looks, Derek thinks, absolutely adorable behind the counter, buzzing from too much caffeine and bouncing around as he works. Judging from the wad of cash in the tip jar, other customers have been equally enamored with him.

Instead of going straight back to the apartment, they end up in the French Quarter, wandering aimlessly. It’s ridiculously hot, and the streets aren’t nearly as busy as they are other times of the year. It’s just too hot. Even Jackson Square is more subdued than usual. 

Because there are fewer people around, that’s probably why the fortune teller speaks to them. “Young man, let me read your cards for you,” the woman calls out as they pass. Derek is prepared to ignore her—ignoring the catcalls of street vendors and performers is part of life here—but Stiles, less used to that kind of attention, immediately stops.

Derek sighs. Jackson Square always has a few fortune tellers around, cashing in on the city’s reputation for the supernatural. Tourists can have their palms read, their fortunes told, their questions answered through a tarot deck. There are even a couple of women who claim to practice Santeria who do…something. And a couple of memorable West African men who will “throw the bones” for anyone willing to part with $40 for the pleasure. As far as Derek can tell, this service involves tossing chicken bones across a table and then interpreting the way they fall. 

It’s all very theatrical and, as far as Derek’s concerned, ridiculous. People are so desperate to believe in magic, in the _idea_ of magic, that they’ll happily pony up the cash for “an experience.” He clears his throat, prepared to issue a brusque but polite refusal, but it’s too late. Stiles is already ensnared. 

“Special price for today,” the fortune teller says in an Eastern bloc accent that may or may not be authentic. “A two card reading for you, only $15,” she tells Stiles, then nods up at Derek. “Or I can do you and your gentleman both for $25. Special deal for such a cute couple.”

Derek glares. The woman ignores him, and Stiles doesn’t even see it, as he is already reaching for his wallet like the mark that he is. 

“You wanna, Derek?”

“Absolutely not.” 

Stiles shoots him a look that is less frustrated than _disappointed._ “Don’t be a Sourwolf,” he says out of the side of his mouth as he pulls two fives and some crumpled singles from his wallet, happily handing his recently earned wages over. 

“Just me, then,” Stiles says, and plops down in front of the little card table the woman has set up. She’s covered it with a lace shawl, and her tarot deck is spread ostentatiously in front of her. Derek’s surprised she’s not also gazing into an overturned fishbowl. Jesus, he hates this shit. 

“Excellent. I’m Natasha,” the woman says, flipping back her long dark hair and smiling indulgently at Stiles. 

After a moment or two of chit chat, Natasha hands the tarot deck across the table and tells Stiles to shuffle them and touch them as much as he wants, while “concentrating on what he’d like to know.” Derek doesn’t bother trying not to roll his eyes. It doesn’t matter, as neither Natasha nor Stiles is paying him a bit of attention. 

When Stiles returns the cards to her, Natasha makes a big production out of splitting the deck, ultimately laying down two cards—the first features a skeleton on horseback, and the next, which she places across the first, shows a full moon with two howling wolves beneath it. 

“The Death card and the Moon,” she croons, as if this is, in and of itself, some great revelation. 

Stiles, of course, eats it up, and looks over his shoulder at Derek and hisses, “Death and the _moon_." 

“Should I be nervous?” Stiles asks, flipping back around to face Natasha. 

She raises her eyebrows. “Not of the Death card, in and of itself,” she says. “People often take it literally, and that is not usually the case. The death of one thing can be the birth of another. A Death card can represent new beginnings. Have you started anything new recently?”

Derek groans. The kid is wide-eyed and fresh-faced as a daisy—everything is fucking new to him. She’s hardly clairvoyant to ask such a question. 

“The Moon, though.” She taps the second card thoughtfully. “That’s a surprising card to be crossed here. The Moon card tells a story. See the wolves, here? Howling at us from all sides, keeping us from our true path.” She frowns, looking up at Derek and then at Stiles. “I don’t think that’s what this card means for you, though.”

Stiles shoots a glance at Derek and then turns back to Natasha. “What do you think it means?”

She reaches out and grabs Stiles hands across the table, closing her eyes for a moment. Derek is grinding his teeth so hard he thinks they may break off. 

Natasha drops Stiles hands, opens her eyes. “You aren’t frightened of wolves, for one thing.”

Stiles jerks in his seat and looks at Derek again, widening his eyes at him. Derek ignores him. 

“What else?” Stiles asks, eating this up with a spoon.

She shifts in her seat, running her manicured red nails over the cards again, and then looks over Stiles to Derek, staring at him as she speaks. “I think, young man, that _you_ are the Death card, forcing a new beginning on someone else. I think that you walk among your wolves—perhaps one particular wolf—and force _him_ onto his true path.” She drops her gaze and looks back at Stiles, offering him an obnoxiously knowing smile. “And I think that you ended up with a couple’s reading, even if that’s not what you asked for.”

*

“I’m just saying, a wolf. _A wolf, Derek._ ” 

They’re eating Chinese food on Derek’s sofa while Jeopardy plays in the background. Derek is trying manfully to change the subject, but all Stiles wants to talk about is his tarot reading. 

“You don’t think there’s anything the slightest bit significant that she pretty much talked to you about being a fucking werewolf? Seriously, Derek?” Stiles shoves the container of egg rolls toward him, not even bothering to make it seem like he’s not encouraging Derek to eat them. 

“I think she makes a living rooking tourists out of their money.”

“Okay, fine, but wolves, Derek. Wolves. And she didn’t even talk to me! She looked directly at you.”

Derek rolls his eyes and takes an egg roll, thinking that maybe the only way to get out of this conversation is to eat them all and distract Stiles. Which he is willing to do. No problem.

“You realize I’m a big older guy with a twinky young boy on my arm, right? That wolf shit was probably just because of that,” Derek grumbles.

Stiles’ jaw drops a little. “I am not a twink!”

Derek barks out a laugh. “Are you a skinny, young, pretty gay boy? Are you sleeping with an older man who frequently tells you how pretty you are while fucking you?”

Stiles frowns. “That doesn’t make me a twink.”

“No, ‘course not,” Derek says. 

Stiles thinks for a minute, watching as Derek finishes his second egg roll and starts on a third. “Hey, but I thought if the older guy in question was kind of”—he pauses, reaching out and laying a hand on Derek’s belly—" _big_ , then he was a bear. You’re mixing your gay animal metaphors.”

Derek grins, opens his mouth to disagree just for sport, when Stiles’ phone rings. 

“Hey, it’s Scott. I should pick it up.” Stiles looks at Derek, who has the remainder of their Chinese food in his lap. “You should finish that while I’m on the phone, though.” 

Stiles steps out onto the balcony to take the call. “Hey, buddy,” he chirps into the phone. He misses Scott, Derek can tell. 

Even with the balcony door shut, Derek can hear everything Stiles—and Scott—says. It’s probably impolite to listen, but Derek does it anyway. 

He can tell by Scott’s tone of voice that something’s wrong, even before he starts to explain, and Derek sets his little takeaway Chinese food box down, suddenly more interested in listening than eating. 

*

“There’s an omega in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says when he steps back into the apartment. “He attacked Lydia.”

“I heard,” Derek says, figuring there’s no reason to pretend he didn't overhear most of the conversation. 

Stiles just nods. “Well, then, you know I’m going back for Labor Day. You should come.” 

Derek shifts on the couch, picking his food back up and focusing on taking a bite. “I should stay here.”

“Umm, no you shouldn’t,” Stiles says, sitting down next to him. “Scott hasn’t dealt with an omega before—the last one that came through was when you were alpha and Gerard killed it. He could use your help.”

“Scott can handle it.” 

Stiles looks at him, turning on the couch until he’s facing Derek, legs tucked under him. “Why don’t you ever go back?”

“I do,” Derek says, picking up the last egg roll. “I was back in April.” 

“For how long?” 

“Couple of days. Met with the accountant. Checked on some properties. Checked in with Scott.” 

“And that was it.” Stiles frowns. “Even if you don’t care about anyone else, didn’t you at least want to hang out with Malia a little bit? Cousins and all?”

“I saw Malia. And she comes down here to visit.”

“She does?” 

“Yeah, she’ll probably be down sometime this fall.” Derek looks up at Stiles appraisingly. “Didn’t you sleep with her in high school? Don’t get any ideas.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Derek doesn’t miss how his cheeks pink up a little. “That was before I realized I was—uh, not so into girls. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is you should come back with me.” 

“No,” Derek says flatly. “So Lydia’s okay, then?” 

“Yeah, Liam got there in time and the omega took off. I guess she’s staying at Chris Argent’s right now—feels like it’s safer there. Probably right.” 

Derek raises his eyebrows. “She’s staying with Chris Argent?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, she spent a lot of time with him after—after Allison.” Stiles shrugs. “Allison was her best friend, and Chris—he lost everything. You know?”

Derek closes the lid on his Chinese food and sets it down. Yeah, he knows. 

“Please come back with me,” Stiles says, looking at Derek with an expression of such genuine hope that Derek almost says yes just to make him happy. “If Scott hasn’t figured out the omega stuff yet, you can help out. And it would be nice to see everyone, right? Plus you’d probably miss me otherwise.”

“I think I can handle a long weekend without you,” Derek says, although honestly, he’s grown frighteningly accustomed to having Stiles around. 

Stiles sighs. “You’re practically an omega yourself.”

Derek flinches. 

*

The next morning, Stiles opens one eye, peering up from underneath the sheet. He tossed and turned the night before, worried about Lydia and the pack, thinking about what the fortune teller had said about “leading his wolf.” Derek doesn’t want to talk about any of it, but Stiles _does_. It’s fucking important.

Derek is standing in front of the closet, shirtless, in a pair of unbuttoned jeans. Which is distracting, even after a relatively sleepless night.

Stiles groans, dropping one hand down to his cock, which is hard. Probably because it’s morning—but hi, the half-naked werewolf isn’t hurting the situation. 

“Hey,” he mumbles from the sheets. “Why you up?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Because it’s morning? Was gonna see if you wanted to go out for breakfast. There’s nothing here—we’re even out of coffee.”

“Ugh. Yeah, gonna have to go out.” He blinks, tugging the sheet down so he can see out of both eyes. “Or hey! You could go get food and coffee and bring it back here,” he says, grinning hopefully.

Derek tugs at the button on his jeans, looking distracted. “Maybe,” he says, not really paying attention. 

Stiles looks—really looks—at Derek, and his cock jumps a little. He looks…well. He looks really good. And also like he absolutely does not fit in those jeans. 

“Um. Can you button those, dude?” Stiles asks, scrubbing a hand across his cheeks. 

“Of course.” 

“Then do it.”

Stiles watches, sitting up in bed and letting the sheet slide down to his waist. Derek tugs the flaps of his jeans together, sucking in his belly, and Stiles blatantly, obviously slides his hand into the waistband of his boxers. “I don’t think you can, Derek.” 

Derek tugs harder, and Stiles grins. “Come here,” he says, patting the bed beside him. “You don’t need to button those, big guy. I’m just gonna want you to take ‘em off, anyway.” 

Derek sighs, letting his belly expand again, and he climbs back into bed. “They fit before you moved to New Orleans,” he grumbles. 

“Mmm, is that so?” Stiles squirms closer to Derek, reaching out and poking his lower belly. “Because I remember thinking your jeans looked pretty damn tight when you picked me up from the airport.”

Derek blushes a little, and Stiles raises up and kisses his jaw, reveling in his scratchy beard, the softness beneath it. “They buttoned then,” Derek says. 

“And now they don’t,” Stiles sasses, running his hand over the crest of Derek’s belly. “Here, see if you can wiggle out of those things, and I’ll show you how much I like it. And then you can take me out for breakfast.”

An hour later, they’re eating huge omelettes at the Camellia Grill. Derek’s traded his jeans for track pants, Stiles is sitting a little gingerly against the booth, well-fucked and content, and he's completely forgotten that he had planned to talk to Derek again about going back to Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I've had my tarot cards done a few times, both in and out of New Orleans, but I don't actually know much about it, so if I fucked up the meaning of the cards, I apologize now. I'm not very knowledgeable about it, and I did a half-assed google search and called it research. So.  
> 2\. I don't think there is actually a Coffee Call in New Orleans, but there IS one in Baton Rouge, so you should go if you're ever there. And there really is a Camellia Grill in New Orleans, and you really should go get an omelette.  
> 3\. As always, I live for your comments, you guys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversation, sex, and Stiles being an absolute and utter prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gave me feels.

Stiles looks down at his phone and taps out a message. It’s only 6:00 AM in California, but Lydia is usually up ridiculously early.

_Things okay your way?_

Her response is immediate, so he knows she was awake.

_Living the dream, spending the last of my summer hiding from rogue wolves. How’s NOLA?_

 _Hot. Expensive. Mostly free of werewolves._

 _

Derek?

What about him?

Don’t play coy, Stilinski. Are you two fucking yet?

_

Fucking Lydia. 

_What makes you think that?_

 _Because you used to be in love with him? Because you’re a gorgeous young thing who showed up on his doorstep and Scott told me you’re still staying with him? Because you’re kind of a slut?_

Stiles laughs a little despite himself. 

_Just because I’m staying with him doesn’t mean anything. You’re staying with Chris._

 _Yes._

Stiles stares at the screen. Yes, she’s staying with Chris? Yes, she’s fucking Chris? No. He shakes his head and redirects the conversation.

_I’m looking for an apartment though._

 _But you and Derek are fucking, y/y?_

 _

Jesus, Martin. You’re like a bloodhound.

I have a sixth sense for when my friends are having hot sex. 

Is that a banshee thing?

Maybe. It’s incredibly accurate.

Fine. Yes. 

_

She sends back a string of emojis, most of which involve confetti and balloons. 

*

Stiles tugs at his hair and peers at his laptop, as if he can will something into existence simply by looking harder for it. 

“What are you doing?” Derek’s voice startles him as he walks into the kitchen. Stiles hadn’t realized he was up yet. 

Stiles sighs. “Looking for an apartment.”

Derek blinks, still looking rumpled from sleep, blurry around the edges. He’s wearing boxers and an undershirt that probably fit better ten pounds ago, and Stiles has to resist the urge to jump up from the table and go wrap himself around the man. “An apartment?” 

“Well, yeah. I was supposed to be here for two weeks, and summer’s almost over, so I should probably do that.” 

Derek nods, an unreadable expression on his face. He pours coffee—Stiles made the CDM stuff that Derek loves, even though it’s bitter and awful—and then dumps a gratuitous amount of creamer and sugar into it. It sort of makes Stiles’ teeth hurt to look at it, but Derek looks happier after a couple of sips. He leans back against the counter and eyes Stiles over the cup. “Found anything?”

“Ugh—not really.” Stiles frowns, gesturing toward the screen. “The only stuff available uptown is crazy expensive. Even just rooms for rent are really high, and I’d have to live with strangers—which, okay, what if they’re serial killers? I mean, I could afford a place if I wanted to live all the way out in fucking Metairie and drive in to work, but I don’t have a car, so…”

“Plus then you’d have to live in Metairie,” Derek adds helpfully, wrinkling his nose. 

“Right.” He looks up at Derek. “How much do you pay in rent for this place? A two bedroom upper can’t be cheap.” 

Derek gives him a funny look. “I don’t rent.”

“You own this?” Stiles stares at him. “You own this. Jesus. Sometimes I forget that you’re a fucking grown up and shit.”

Derek snorts. 

Half an hour later, Stiles is still scrolling morosely through Craigslist, and Derek is sitting across from him, eyeballing him over a bowl of cereal. “You could just live here,” he says out of nowhere. 

Stiles looks up, not sure how to respond. 

“I mean—you already do, basically.” Derek shrugs. “It’s fine—and you can’t afford rent working part time at the coffee shop, anyway.”

“So I should just stay here and—and what, Derek? Sleep with you and let you pay for everything?” Stiles can feel his cheeks heating a little. “I don’t need you to do that.”

“It wouldn’t be like that.”

“Wouldn’t it? Jesus, Derek, you already pay for basically everything. And I mean, I get it—you’re a fucking millionaire and buying my food and shit doesn’t mean anything to you. But it’s—it does to me.” 

Derek’s brows are low, and he looks—hurt? Which doesn’t make sense. “What?” Stiles snaps.

“Nothing.”

Stiles sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick. I need to do things for myself, okay? I didn’t move here to be your…” Stiles trails off, searching for the right word. “Your kept boy or something.”

At that, Derek huffs out a sharp burst of laughter. “My _kept boy_? Seriously?”

“Well, something! What else would I be, if I lived here and leeched off your money?”

Derek shrugs. “Fine, so you can rent my second bedroom. $200 bucks a month.”

“The one I haven’t stepped foot in for weeks? And that price is so low I’m almost offended.” 

“Yup, that one. By all means, start sleeping in there again if you want,” Derek says, his eyes sparkling. 

“So I give you $200 a month to rent a room we both know I’m not going to use, and then…what? Things just stay the way they are?”

Derek gives Stiles a careful look. “Yes?”

“Still feels like having a sugar daddy,” Stiles says, but he’s smiling a little bit.

“No, no.” Derek leans smugly back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “I mean, you’ll have to start doing weird sex stuff now, but that’s fair, right?” 

*

“What kind of weird sex stuff?” Stiles asks that evening. 

Derek, stretched out long ways on the couch, sets his laptop aside and then raises his arms above his head in a slow stretch that pulls his t-shirt up and exposes an inch or two of his belly. “What’s that now?”

Stiles grins. “You said if you were gonna be my sugar daddy, I’d have to do weird sex stuff. So—what is it, big guy? What’s your thing?” 

Derek raises an eyebrow and peers over the side of the couch to where Stiles is sprawled on the floor, digging through photocopies from the archives. “Mmm, so I have free rein? Whatever I want?”

Stiles rolls onto his side, bracing his chin in his hand and looking up at Derek from underneath his eyelashes. “Sure, how bad could it be?”

“Oh, it could be pretty bad.” Derek smirks, running a hand slowly over his belly, pushing in on the soft curve that sits over his unfastened jeans. “I could be one of those weirdos who wanted you to eat till your stomach hurt and then touch your belly.” He shifts, turning to face Stiles a little more, still palming his gut. “I could constantly order food I knew I couldn’t eat and then hand it off to you until you couldn’t button your jeans. Act real innocent about it, but you’d know I was getting off on it hard. Make you walk around the house in clothes that don’t fit anymore, just because it got me off, thinking about it.” 

“I don’t make you walk around in clothes that don’t fit!” Stiles finally says, feeling his cheeks heat up—and his dick jump a little. “And I never _make_ you eat anything,” he adds. 

“No, you just strongly suggest it.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Do you wish I wouldn’t?” He knows Derek is teasing him, mostly, but they’ve never quite discussed this, either. Not in such bald terms, anyway. 

“It’s fine. More than fine. Not like I was skinny when you showed up, anyway.”

Stiles exhales, feeling more relieved than this conversation probably warrants. “Well—good.” He smiles, a little nervous somehow. “You look good.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Chubby chaser.” His voice is warm, though. 

“Okay, so we’ve established that is my thing,” Stiles says, redirecting the conversation. “But this was supposed to be about you and _your_ thing. So? What is it, Sourwolf?” Derek shrugs, but Stiles doesn’t let it go. “Nope, c’mon. It can’t be that weird. Can’t be weirder than getting a hard-on watching you eat fucking dessert. Like, seriously, Derek, I’m at work popping boners over pastries. It’s ridiculous and I shame myself regularly over it.” Stiles climbs to his feet, swinging one leg lithely over Derek’s hips and straddling him. “So it’s only fair that I know what your thing is, too.” 

Derek tilts his hips up a little bit, reaches up to tug on Stiles’ shirt until Stiles takes the hint and pulls it over his head and tosses it to the floor. Derek’s obviously interested, but he’s still silent. 

Stiles leans forward, dropping a few kisses on Derek’s jaw, working his way back until he can whisper in his ear. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Promise.”

Derek’s hips thrust a little, almost involuntarily, and Stiles knows he has him. 

“You wanna fuck me?” Stiles asks, mostly just for something to say, feeling like he needs to get Derek talking. Really, that’s how Derek pulled this kink of out Stiles, the first time they’d had sex. He’d kept asking Stiles to tell him what he wanted. 

Derek groans, pulling him down closer, till Stiles’ lean torso is pressed against Derek’s round belly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Stiles rolls his hips, blatantly grinding himself onto Derek’s crotch, reaching down to stick his hand between the unfastened tabs of Derek’s jeans and stroke the soft, soft skin there. “Me too, baby. Tell me—tell me how you’re gonna fuck me. Tell me what you want.” 

Derek’s voice is a little lower than usual, when he opens his mouth. “Gonna pick you up, carry you to bed,” he mumbles, and it’s not much, certainly not a confession of anything, but _Jesus_ , Stiles wants to be picked up, wants to be carried in Derek’s arms. He kisses him, writhing a little, wanting so badly for him to keep fucking talking. 

“Gonna lay you down,” Derek continues, and Stiles is grinding shamelessly on him at this point, panting against his neck, one hand wrapped around his shoulder and the other groping at his belly. “Fuck, Stiles, gonna pull off those jeans, see if you’re—leaking—see if you’re _wet_ for me, baby.”

And there it is, then. Stiles pulls himself up a bit, hovering over Derek’s mouth, so that their lips brush when he speaks. “You want me wet for you? Fuck, Derek.”

Derek gasps a little, and suddenly he’s on his feet, Stiles right along with him. _Jesus_. It’s easy, now, to forget sometimes that Derek’s a wolf. He never shifts in front of Stiles, never so much as flashes a hint of fang. He doesn’t go out on the full moon, and he’s much more likely to be lying back on the couch resting a bloated belly than showing off some sort of supernatural strength or ability. It’s easy to forget that he’s also a fucking monster, strong enough to break Stiles apart without even trying. Even if that strength is coated with a layer or two of soft pudge now, it’s still _there_ \--and now, with his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist, Derek’s arms holding him up, Stiles is viscerally reminded of just how powerful Derek is. 

It feels like they’re down the hall and into the bedroom in just a couple of strides, and Derek tosses him down onto the bed, tugging at Stiles’ jeans immediately. Stiles does his best to help, shimmying his hips up so that Derek can slide them down. He kicks away his own, as well, and then he’s on Stiles, covering him completely, heavy on Stiles’ much smaller body from chest to belly to thigh. 

Derek’s kissing him mindless, one hand sliding between their bodies and into Stiles’ boxers. “You are, baby, you are wet for me,” he says, almost crooning. Stiles can feel the precome pooling everywhere, how it lets Derek grip his cock and slide his hand down, loose and slow, just enough to make Stiles crazy, not enough to accomplish anything. “Fuck, that’s so good, baby.”

Stiles moans, not even bothering to try to hide it. “Yeah, Derek?”

“Yes—such a good boy, Stiles. Yes.”

When Derek preps him, there’s nothing perfunctory or business-like about it. He’s slow, agonizingly slow, and Stiles lurches against his fingers, keening a little—mostly because he can’t help it, but also because something about this is driving Derek fucking wild, whether it’s having Stiles pinned down, small and fragile, underneath him, or feeling him come apart on his hand. Or maybe it’s that Stiles is really wet now, sloppy with lube, slick everywhere, messy and desperate. 

“Derek, please,” Stiles says, whimpering, writhing under him. “Please, fuck, fill me up, so ready for you. So wet, so ready. Need you so bad.” 

Derek growls a little bit at that, an honest-to-God growl, which Stiles hasn’t heard him do since he fucking got here. It’s the first hint of his wolf to make an appearance, and it’s so quick that Stiles almost misses it. Almost before Stiles can register it, Derek’s pulling his fingers out, leaving Stiles bereft, empty, and then he’s slamming his cock into him, not being gentle at all. It’s completely at odds with the careful way he’d prepped Stiles, like he was made of glass. Now he’s just _fucking_ him, brutal and rough, crashing into him and shoving until he’s fully seated and Stiles is gasping and shaking under him. 

“Shh. Be a good little boy,” Derek mumbles, rolling his hips. “That’s it—so good, so sweet, yes.” 

Stiles can’t reach his cock with Derek pinning him like this, trapping it under his heavy belly, but it doesn’t matter, not really, not at all. Not when he can just thrust up, pushing his aching cock into Derek’s gut a little each time he thrusts up to meet Derek, and fuck, _fuck_ , it’s good. Like every fucking thing they do. It’s so good. 

“Was I a good little boy?” Stiles asks later, leering a little as he lies cuddled beside Derek ,tracing aimless patterns across the curve of his tummy. 

He half-expects Derek to blush or demure, but he doesn’t. “So good,” he says simply. “Such a good boy.” 

Stiles groans, his hand clenching down on Derek’s belly just for something to grab onto. 

“So let me get this straight,” he says, just because he can’t resist an over-discussion. “I get off on you being bigger than me, and you have a thing for me being your _little boy_.” 

“Mmm.” Derek’s eyes are closed, and he reaches a lazy hand out to skim over Stiles’ lean chest, down to his narrow hips. “Pretty little thing, too.” 

Stiles grins. “Well that works out well, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Go to sleep, Stiles.” 

*

The fight, when it happens, springs out of nowhere—except that really, Stiles figures it’s probably been broiling under the surface for days. 

He hasn’t shown Derek any of his work from the archives since that first time, when Derek had made it so clear he isn’t interested in it. Today, though, he can’t resist, because he feels like he’s on to something, feels like this is something that might matter—and it does matter, since every time he talks to Beacon Hills, the news is worse. There’s been some sort of coven activity in the area, Scott says, and there’s been another attack on Lydia, this time as she was driving. Chris Argent had been with her, had prevented anything from happening, and the omega had taken off again—but it’s a fucking problem, and Lydia is supposed to leave in a week to start her grad program at Stanford, but as it stands, she can’t really be anywhere without pack protection. Or Chris Argent protection, which is a situation Stiles is pretty sure he wants to discuss with her when he gets to Beacon Hills, because—well. Lydia and her banshee senses haven’t cornered the market on knowing-when-your-friends-are-banging. But that’s another issue for another day. 

“Look at this,” he says, shoving a few photocopies and pages of notes across the table toward Derek. “Look, more of those accounts about the witches in New Orleans in the 1890s. Supposedly the coven shared one familiar, a wolf.” He points to a particular passage of text, relentlessly highlighted in a pink marker. “A ‘savage beast’ who ‘travels always with them,’ see? So what I’m thinking is, what if that was a werewolf that left his pack for the coven? What would that mean? Would that be an omega, then?” 

Derek looks at the papers, but Stiles can tell just by his body language that he’s only skimming the text, barely engaged. “Could be,” he says, and Stiles can feel his jaw tensing. 

“Thanks for your help, buddy.” 

Derek sighs. “What do you want from me, Stiles? I don’t know what’s happening in Beacon Hills, and I’m not going to be able to figure it out by looking at some crazy newspaper articles from 120 years ago.” 

“Do you even care?”

Derek has the decency to wince a little. “Yes, I care.”

“Could have fooled me.” 

“Do I care about your research? Do I care that Lydia got attacked again? Yes, Stiles, of course. I care. But I can’t fix it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to fucking act like it!” Stiles tugs at his hair, frustrated. “I want you to come back to Beacon Hills with me next weekend. I want you to act like you care that your fucking pack is being attacked. I want you to act like it _matters_.” 

“It’s not _my pack_. It’s Scott’s pack.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Stiles can hear his voice getting a little pitchy, but he can’t seem to reign it in. “If you’re not the alpha, you don’t care? Seriously?”

Derek flinches, looking wounded, and it makes Stiles’ heart clench, but it’s a fair fucking question, and he doesn’t walk it back, just stares until Derek responds. 

“I care. But I’m not—I’m not there. I’m not…not really—“

“What, not really part of the pack?” Stiles interrupts. “Whose fault is that? You’re the one who exiled yourself here, dude.”

Derek blinks, and his eyes flash blue for the briefest of moments, but when he speaks, his voice is frighteningly neutral. “You’re here too, Stiles. What’s your point?”

“I’m here to work, I’m here to do something for the fucking pack. My whole life is about what I can bring back to them, Jesus fucking Christ.” Stiles stares across the table at Derek, suddenly so fucking mad at him he can barely think straight. All he wants is for Derek to be _in this with him_ , not always 2000 miles away from everyone they know, not always pretending New Orleans has always and will always be home. “I’m not just here eating fucking po boys and pretending the past doesn’t exist.” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Stiles would give anything-- _anything_ \--to take them back. Derek’s face goes blank, expressionless, and he suddenly looks more like the Derek that Stiles knew back in Beacon Hills than he has since the moment he picked Stiles up at the airport. His cheeks are fuller, sure, but otherwise, that same thousand-yard stare is firmly back in place. It’s like watching a man become a statue. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—“

Derek cuts him off. “I’m going out.” He stands up, already looking past Stiles as he walks away. “I’ll be late getting back. Sleep in the room you pay me for tonight, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking prompts/doing shit on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com). Come hang out with me.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments much appreciated. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a much needed conversation. Some things get resolved, and a lot doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues to be the slowest burning kink fic to ever have been written. All apologies, but things will heat up again in the next chapter. Promise.

Derek only runs about an hour, and it doesn’t help as much as he thinks it will. It feels good, sort of—he hasn’t shifted much lately. He used to head out of the city, park the Camaro off some access road somewhere, and just _run_ at least once a week. Since Stiles has been here, it’s been maybe twice a month, a quick trip out on an evening when Stiles happens to be working at the archives or the coffee shop. He should make the effort more often, he knows. If nothing else, he could use the exercise—and he just plain _needs_ to shift. He’s a wolf.

Even if he doesn’t want to be. 

So it helps some, sure, to get out of the city, put his paws in the mud. Just go. In a full shift, especially, he loses access to some of his more complex human thoughts and emotions. He still has them—he’s still _him_ \--but they fade out to a dull hum. So he went out expecting to find some relief, but it doesn’t work quite that way. Sure, he quits hearing Stiles’ voice echoing through his head: _I’m not just here eating fucking po boys and pretending the past doesn’t exist._ But the _feeling_ is still there, a snarl of hurt and embarrassment , guilt and anger. And he can’t really outrun it. 

So he ends up at the little divey bar and grill down the street from the apartment, muscles stretched out from the run. He feels good physically, at least, even if everything else is a fucking disaster. 

Katie, the UNO student who is his favorite waitress, makes her way over to his booth immediately. He likes her, genuinely likes her—but she’s too intuitive for her own good, and she gives him a onceover before clucking her tongue at him in an expression so motherly it looks out of place on her youthful features. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Derek says, ducking his head. 

“Uh huh. And where’s your little arm candy tonight?” He and Stiles walk down for dinner perhaps once a week, so Katie has gotten used to seeing them together. 

“Uh—home. Just home.” 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Just home, huh? If you say so. What’ll it be?” 

He orders the house burger, a half pound monstrosity topped with a fried egg, bacon, and three slices of cheese. Because why the fuck not? 

Katie pats him on the shoulder when she comes back with his food, still eyeballing him like a stray puppy left out in the rain. The tray is piled high with fries—in fact, he’s pretty sure she doubled the order, just because. 

Derek’s not sure if this counts as what Laura used to call “eating your feelings”—which was a term she applied to pretty much any event that involved her eating ice cream on the couch and watching Lifetime movies. Derek had always been happy to join her, pile up next to her with a spoon of his own. Force her to share her ice cream, maybe make fun of whatever shitty movie she was watching. Lean up against each other. Just be. 

He hasn’t felt that close to another person since the fire. Unless you count these last weeks with Stiles. Which—fuck. Did they count? 

Because here’s the thing. It’s been _good_. All of it. The sex, abso-fucking-lutely. But everything else, too. Going to sleep with Stiles rooted up against him, tucked under his arm like he _belongs_ there. Stiles in his kitchen, digging around in the fridge. Making scrambled eggs in the morning with this expression on his face like it counts as cooking, like he’s proud of his domestic accomplishments. Walking down Magazine Street, Stiles’ hand casually linked with his, like it never occurred to Stiles to be anything but out and proud and fucking visible. Which, hell, it probably hadn’t. 

What was it between them, though? This morning, he’d have said—well, he might not have known what to call it, but he’d have said whatever was between them was real. Now? He doesn’t know what to think. All he can hear is Stiles’ crack about eating po boys, and all he can think is maybe Stiles _isn’t_ into this. Into him—into him the way he is now. His thick thighs and big belly, his blurred biceps and soft jaw. 

But that doesn’t seem right, doesn’t _feel_ right. The way Stiles reacts to him, that raw need in his eyes, that doesn’t seem false. The look he gets when he hands Derek his food, puts his hand on Derek’s belly, works his skinny fingers into Derek’s straining waistband. He looks wrecked; he looks completely torn apart. 

But still: you can hate the thing that gets you off. You can want something, you can need it, you can be obsessively fucking driven by it, want to fuck it and roll around in it and own it, and you can still be repulsed by it. Disgusted by it. Hate it. 

He knows, because Kate Argent loved letting him fuck her. She’d beg him to let his eyes shift while he plowed into her with teenage abandon, more enthusiasm than skill. Beg for him to fuck her from behind, hard, covering her and pushing her down to her belly like a wolf. She would come over and over when they were together, shaking and groaning his name. 

She’d hated werewolves. She’d also loved being fucked by one. 

Stiles is no Kate Argent. But who’s to say that Stiles isn’t disgusted and attracted to him in equal measure, too? 

*

It’s 3:00 AM when Derek comes home—and even then, he’d only left the bar because Katie had insisted. She’d been getting ready to clock out when she’d come over to his booth, where he’d been sitting, bleary-eyed, in front of his seventh beer or so and a few empty plates. 

“Listen, honey,” she’d told him with a no-nonsense look on her face. “I don’t know what happened with you and your man, but you need to go home. He’s probably worried sick.”

He’d left his phone in the Camaro, so he had no idea what Stiles was thinking. If he was worried. Hell, if he was even at the apartment. He’d just shrugged, shaking his head. 

“Nope, time to go. This is me, kicking you out. Listen, I’m parked down the block, and I need you to walk me to my car, so let’s go.” 

Derek blinked up at her. “Dirty pool,” he muttered. 

She grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t say no to that. C’mon.” 

When he lets himself inside the apartment, the first thing he sees is Stiles, asleep on the sofa. His relief is instant, washing over him like rain. He hadn’t left. Hadn’t even gone to sleep in “his” room. He’d probably tried to wait up. His cell phone is still clutched in his hand, like a kid with a teddy bear. 

When he gets to his bedroom, Derek pulls his own phone out of his pocket and looks at it, feeling guilty. Five missed calls. Twice as many texts. All from Stiles. 

*

When Stiles wakes up, it’s 5:30 in the morning, and he doesn’t know if Derek’s back. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but it had finally happened at some point. 

The door to Derek’s bedroom is open, and he can’t stop himself from tiptoeing into the doorway to see if he’s there. And he is—curled up under the sheet, tucked into the fetal position. He looks small, somehow, and it breaks Stiles’ heart a little. Derek usually sleeps sprawled on his back, taking up all of the bed and the blankets and the space, this big warm body for Stiles to burrow against. Now he’s balled up so tightly. It’s all wrong. 

He would give anything to take back what he said. Not about Derek exiling himself to New Orleans. That part was true. And they needed to fucking talk about it. Derek _needs_ to go back to Beacon Hills. He _needs_ to be part of a fucking pack. A real member. He needs a life that isn’t just this very pretty veneer that he’s created in this very pretty town, a city so rollicking and full of life that you could be in it and forget to live your own. 

So no, Stiles won’t apologize for bringing that up. He won’t. 

But the part about eating po boys? For fuck’s sake. He’d cut off his hand if it could blot those words out of existence, because the moment he’d said it, Derek’s face had closed off. It was like watching a door slam shut, and the man Stiles had been living with all summer was gone. Like Derek had slipped on a mask. 

Stiles _aches_ to crawl into the bed and wrap himself around Derek. Apologize. Try to explain—what? That he’s loved Derek since he was fucking sixteen? That he never meant to hurt him? That he runs his mouth so constantly that sometimes it takes off without him, that he says things that don’t come out right, that this is all so very fucking new for him that he doesn’t know what to do? 

As much as he wants to, he doesn’t go get in the bed. He has a feeling that maybe he’s been doing a lot of what _he_ wants to do lately, without, maybe, fully considering what that means for Derek. Stiles wants Derek to eat. Stiles wants Derek to let him touch his belly. Stiles wants Derek to go back to Beacon Hills. Stiles wants, wants, wants—and maybe he hasn’t exactly thought much about what those desires mean for Derek. 

The last thing Derek said to him was to sleep in his own room. So Stiles doesn’t go into Derek’s. 

Instead, he waits until 7:00, which is as long as he can possibly stand it, and then goes into the kitchen and starts making breakfast. Loudly. Clanging every pot, rattling every pan. 

Because he can respect Derek’s wishes about the room, but he really can’t stand waiting one more second for them to talk. 

When Derek walks in, Stiles looks up from the stove and gives him what he hopes is an innocent face. “Hey.” 

Derek just raises an eyebrow at him. He looks—tired. Guarded. He’s pulled on jeans, which makes Stiles a little sad—usually in the mornings he wears basketball shorts and undershirts, soft and sleepy and comfortable. The jeans seem like distance, somehow.

“I’m cooking,” Stiles says, completely unnecessarily. “There’s coffee.” He points to the pot, another unneeded gesture. 

Derek nods, but just sits down at the table. Stiles grabs a cup and fills it for him. Three huge spoons of sugar, a ton of creamer. He holds it out like an offering, but Derek doesn’t make eye contact, just reaches out and takes it from him. 

“So. Um. What time did you get home last night?” Stiles asks, floundering for a place to begin. “I tried to wait up, but I guess I crashed.”

“After three.”

“Wow.” Stiles inexpertly flips pancakes, wincing as the edges droop and drip. “Umm, late night.” 

Derek doesn’t say a word, just sits there. Stiles bites his lip—he can’t decide if he’s annoyed or terrified. Maybe both. 

“So we should probably talk about this shit,” he finally says, hissing as bacon grease flies up and lands on his arm. “ _Shit_.”

“Use the tongs.”

“Huh?” 

“To turn the bacon. It’s longer than a fork. The grease won’t hit you.”

“Oh.” Stiles tries it, and it works. Who knew? Not Stiles. This is his first time making anything more complicated than scrambled eggs for breakfast. 

And yes, he is fully aware that apologizing with food _may_ be slightly awkward, given the situation. But he wanted to make a gesture, damn it. 

“So, seriously, are we gonna talk?” Stiles says, not turning away from the stove. 

He can hear Derek sigh, can imagine exactly how he’s sitting, hunched over his coffee, wide shoulders bunched up. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Uh—last night? I—fuck, Derek.” He turns around, even though he’s almost scared to look. “I’m sorry—when I said that shit, that wasn’t how I meant it, okay?” 

Derek is silent for a moment, and Stiles just stares at him. He doesn’t look like he slept particularly well, and he’s tense all over. He’s still, hands down, the most gorgeous person Stiles has ever seen. 

“How did you mean it?” Derek finally says. He doesn’t look at Stiles, just stands up and refills his coffee cup, concentrating on stirring in cream and sugar like it’s rocket science.

Stiles swallows, prays he doesn’t fuck this up again. Works up the courage to be as blunt as he can. “All I meant was—I mean—shit, Derek. Okay, it had _nothing_ to do with food, okay? I just meant—I want you to be a part of the pack. Like for real, not just seeing Scott twice a year and calling it good.” He runs his fingers through his hair, probably inadvertently dragging bacon grease through it. “I just meant I didn’t want you to stay in New Orleans forever and pretend home didn’t exist.” 

He stands there, waiting for Derek to respond, and his heart is pounding in his chest. 

After a few beats of silence, Derek stands up and walks to the stove. “You’re burning it,” he says, hip checking Stiles out of the way and expertly flipping the bacon—with a fork, without burns. 

Stiles does his best to keep quiet, trying to wait for Derek’s reaction. But, Derek being Derek, there _isn’t_ a reaction. He’s quiet while they fill their plates, quiet while they sit down across from one another, quiet while he eats slightly burned bacon and sort of doughy pancakes—but seriously, they’re still pretty good, and Stiles would be proud of himself if things weren’t so tense between them. 

Finally, Stiles can’t stand it another second. “Well?”

“It’s good,” Derek says. 

_Jesus Christ._ “No—I mean, good, I’m glad, but—I mean, about what I said?” 

Derek drags a piece of bacon through the syrup on his plate, playing with it a minute before he answers. “Beacon Hills is home for you, Stiles. I’m not sure it’s home for me. A crazy uncle and a cousin aren’t exactly a family.” 

“You also have a pack.” 

“Do I?” When Stiles opens his mouth, Derek shakes his head, cutting him off. “I know what you’re going to say. But—“ he shrugs. “I get it, Stiles. You want me to go back with you. You want me to be more involved with the pack. I get it.”

He still looks like he’s wearing a mask, though. 

“Where did you go last night?” Stiles asks, because he can’t stop himself. 

Derek looks up at him, a funny expression on his face. “Why?” 

“I was worried about you. I texted and called a ton.” 

Derek makes a face that looks a little bit guilty. “Sorry—left it in the car. I went for a run. And then to the bar.”

Stiles nods. “Your apartment felt fucking weird, being in it without you.” 

“You’ve been here when I’m not home before.” 

“Not like that.” Stiles shakes his head. “It sucked.” 

“My night sucked, too. Katie asked where my “arm candy” was.” 

Stiles snorts. “Ugh, rude.” He pauses. “What did you tell her?”

“Told her you were home.” 

Derek sets his fork down, even though there’s another pancake and some bacon on his plate. It sort of bothers Stiles—and then it bothers him that it bothers him. 

“So—can I show you something, dude?”

Derek cocks an eyebrow at him, leans back in his chair. “I guess.” 

Stiles pulls out his phone and loads Instagram. “This is Brandon—the last guy I dated in college.” He shoves the phone under Derek’s nose, making sure he sees the photo, and then pulls it back. “This is the guy before him—Taylor.” He scrolls again. “This is Jordan—the guy before the guy before. And look, that’s Josh—he was the one before that.” He slides the phone off and sets it down, looking across the table at Derek. “So. See?” 

“What? That you banged your way through most of a frat while you were in college?” Derek’s voice is flat, but his upper lip is curling into the barest suggestion of a smile. 

“None of them were in a frat! Well—Jordan. But that was it. And no, dude, not that.” 

“Ah. That you’re definitely gay? That I shouldn’t have worried you couldn’t take a dick the first time we fucked?” Derek’s smile is growing, just a tiny bit. If Stiles didn’t know him well, he probably wouldn’t notice it at all. 

“No, damn it. I mean—yes, to both of those things, but that’s not the point. The point is—“

“I get it, Stiles,” Derek interrupts softly. “Big guys. You’ve got a—a type.” 

“Yes,” Stiles breathes, happy Derek said it. “So when I made that stupid fucking crack about po boys, it wasn’t—I wasn’t saying anything about that. I just meant…what I said earlier. About home. About going home.” He falters, trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” 

Derek looks down at his hands, and Stiles holds his breath, not sure that he’s going to speak. “Did they—did they gain weight while you guys were together?”

“Um, maybe?” Stiles shrugs. “Brandon did, probably. It wasn’t—it wasn’t like a thing we _did_ , like you and I have been.” He’s blushing furiously, but he makes himself continue. “Which, like, we don’t have to keep doing? If you don’t like it? It’s just—you should know that I think you’re fucking gorgeous. I think so now, and I would if you gained one hundred pounds or one or none.” He takes a deep breath. “And, like, I don’t know if you knew, but I had the biggest crush on you in high school.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, I knew.”

“You did?”

“It was visible from the moon, Stiles. You smelled like a perpetual hard-on.”

Stiles’ cheeks are _on fire_. “Oh. Um. Sorry about that. But, um—so yeah, desperately in love with you in high school, and you were, uh, skinny then?” He scrubs his hands over his cheeks, trying to figure out what to say. “So, just let the record show that I was into you then and I’m into you now, and the idea of you being bigger? Still into it. Because I’m fucking into you. Okay? So—umm, there you go.” 

Silence. 

“So, usually this is the time when the other person says something like ‘Gee, Stiles, what a lovely and heartfelt confession. I, too, am not unfond of you.’”

Derek nods. “I, too, am not unfond of you, Stiles.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, and Derek’s lips twitch. “I am, you know. I was afraid you’d be gone when I got back last night.”

“Where would I go? Kept boy, remember?”

Derek smiles full-on now. “How could I forget?” He looks down at his plate of abandoned food and picks up his fork again. “So, just for the record, then, you want me to eat this?”

Stiles nods fervently. “Yes.” 

“And then?”

“Honestly? I just want to go back to bed. I slept like shit.” 

“Yeah, me too. Some asshole was banging all the pots and pans at the crack of dawn.” 

*

Derek is comfortably full when they climb into his bed. He’s sleepy, too—but when he gets an armful of Stiles, he sort of wakes up. “Hey,” Stiles whispers, throwing one leg across Derek’s thighs. 

“Hey, kiddo.” Derek reaches out, manhandles him until Stiles is on top of him, straddling his hips. 

The moment Derek gets him positioned, Stiles is grinding down, his hands moving in little circles over Derek’s belly. “You want me to ride you? Or you want a blowjob?” Stiles is looking at him, earnest and wide-eyed, and Derek thinks that he really wants to just throw the kid down and fuck the shit out of him from behind—but he’s _tired_ , and that’s a lot of work. 

“Ride me,” he says instead, already reaching over to grab lube. 

Stiles takes it out of his hand and slicks his own fingers. “Just lie back,” he says, and Derek is a little surprised, a little turned on. “Watch me.” 

Stiles fucks his own hand, grinding down against it, slow and dirty. Derek can tell that he can’t get the kind of friction he wants, that he can’t really reach his prostrate, but he doesn’t offer to help—just enjoys watching Stiles writhe. 

When he finally slides onto Derek’s cock, he’s keening and desperate. Even so, he goes slow, almost excruciatingly so. He braces himself with one hand on Derek’s shoulder, the other stroking lightly along the side of Derek’s belly, pinching a little. It feels—it feels fucking good. Derek grabs Stiles’ hips and guides him. Lifting him up almost off his cock, then slamming him back down until he’s fully seated. 

Stiles comes hard, his lips red and bitten, pulled wide open as he comes. Just watching it brings Derek to the edge, too, and he tugs Stiles down one more time, brutally hard, before filling him up. 

Afterward, Stiles squirms a little bit, flopping around the way he always does before he actually falls asleep. 

“So you went out to the swamp to run last night?” Stiles asks a few minutes later, his voice already starting to sound husky with sleep.

Derek hums an affirmation, not bothering to open his mouth or his eyes. 

“So—you ever gonna let me see you shift again?”

Derek tenses a little. “Why do you want to?”

“Because it’s part of you? And you were beautiful, in Mexico?” Stiles shrugs, his fingers scrabbling nervously across Derek’s belly. “You don’t have to. I mean, obviously, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just—it would be okay with me. More than okay. If you ever wanted to.” 

They’re silent for a moment, and Derek holds Stiles closer, not sure what to say. He’s lived undercover in New Orleans so long that the idea of shifting in front of Stiles hasn’t even occurred to him. 

He thinks Stiles is asleep when the kid’s voice pipes up one more time. “Hey, is your wolf chubby too?”

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love to hear from you in the comments. Or find me on [tumblr](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Malia has no tact, the boys fly to California, all the pieces are on the board for The Plot, and I get to add a facial tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am legitimately getting all up in my feels about this Chris/Lydia side pairing I've got brewing here. Like, I kind of want to write that fic. With, like, SuperDom!Chris and SuperBrat!Lydia? Where did that come from? IDEK.

“Scott says Deaton says there’s definitely a coven in Beacon Hills. Something about herbal residue? I don’t know—you know Scott isn’t real great at relaying those kinds of details. But something.” He looks over at Derek, trying to gauge his reaction. He doesn’t want to push the issue—after the fight last weekend, he’s treading really fucking lightly.

Derek gives him a carefully neutral expression. “A coven came through Beacon Hills when I was young. I don’t remember much about it, except that we got to stay home from school for a week, because our parents didn’t want us out of sight.” He smiles a little. “Looking back, we were pretty much on lockdown, but it seemed fun at the time.”

Stiles realizes, rather bemusedly, that this might be the first time Derek has volunteered information about his life before the fire. He smiles back, a little tentative, feeling like he’s approaching an injured animal, maybe. “Probably less fun for your parents, with three kids underfoot while they’re trying to deal with a threat.” 

“More than that—all the cousins were there, too. The house was always full.” He shrugs. “Born wolves always have big families. It’s normal.” 

Stiles nods, trying to ignore the way it feels like his heart might break, to think that Derek has gone from being surrounded by a huge extended family to living alone. “A litter of puppies,” he says, offhand. 

Derek snorts. “Sort of.” 

“Must have been nice. It was always just me, growing up. And Scott, really. He was always around.”

“It was nice.” He shifts on the couch, and Stiles notices that he’s using a rubber band to extend the button on his jeans. Which is fucking adorable and way sexier than it has any right to be. And also a little ridiculous—the man is an actual millionaire, but apparently he can’t bring himself to buy new jeans. Stiles doesn’t want to break the mood they’ve got going right now, Derek’s guarded openness about his childhood, but he files away the rubber-banded-jeans to tease Derek about it later. 

“Any news on the omega?” Derek’s voice is so carefully casual, and he’s looking down at his phone like whatever he’s scrolling through has most of his attention. But Jesus, this is the first time he’s asked anything about Beacon Hills at all. This is huge. 

“Yeah, I guess his scent is all over the preserve, and all around Chris Argent’s place—but Lydia’s gone, she left for Stanford last weekend. Scott’s worried, though.”

“He should be. The problem’s not just going to go away.” His brow furrows, and he keeps tapping on his phone. “And Chris shouldn’t have let Lydia leave. I’m surprised he did.” 

“Chris shouldn’t have _let_ her leave? Lydia kind of does her own thing, if you haven’t noticed?”

“And Chris protects what’s his.” 

Stiles blinks, sputters a little. “What?”

“You don’t think they’re fucking?” Derek puts down his phone and looks up.

“Actually I sort of wondered. But—he’s old enough to be her father.” 

Derek shrugs, leering a little bit. “Some people have a thing for daddies, Stiles.”

Stiles blushes and is quiet for a minute. “I don’t think Chris could tell her what to do, anyway. She’s bossy as hell.” 

Derek doesn’t even bother looking up. “Did you meet Victoria Argent? If he married her, he can handle Lydia.” 

*

Stiles’ flight to California leaves on Friday morning. On Tuesday, Derek grabs him as they pass in the hallway. Pushes him against the wall. 

He catches both of Stiles’ wrists in one big hand and pins them over Stiles’ head, and wraps the other one around Stiles’ throat. Not pushing, not squeezing, just _there_. 

When Derek kisses him, he thinks he’ll probably have bruises on his lips. And when Derek spins him around till he’s facing the wall, shoves him against it and tugs his jeans down so roughly Stiles almost trips, he _knows_ he’ll have bruises on his hips. 

Derek barely preps him at all, just fucks him, hard, and Stiles can feel Derek’s belly hit his lower back with every thrust. He comes so hard his vision whites out, and Derek carries him directly to the shower, after. 

*

On Wednesday morning, Stiles goes out and gets breakfast. He brings back café au lait and a dozen donuts, and Derek lets Stiles feed him most of them, by hand, and then ride his cock, slow and filthy. When they’re done, Derek pulls Stiles down next to him and rubs his face into Stiles’ neck, over and over, until Stiles has beard burn from his jaw to his throat. 

*

On Thursday, Derek comes on Stiles’ chest in the morning, before he leaves for work, and all over his face in the afternoon, when he gets home. And, while Stiles is _so fucking here_ to take a facial, it seems a little bit like maybe Derek’s trying to accomplish something specific. 

“Umm. So, are you marking me?” he asks, because he has decided that the best course of action with Derek is to just be as blunt as fucking possible. 

Derek drags his hand through the mess on Stiles’ cheeks, his chin, and then pushes two fingers into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles licks off the come and then sucks obediently. 

“Well?” he asks, when pulls his mouth away with an obscene pop. 

Derek shrugs. “Wolves do that to partners, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen Scott do it. Well, not the coming, obviously. But the scenting thing around the neck.”

“I bet. When that kid first started dating Kira, she smelled like he’d been dragging his balls over her,” Derek mutters. 

“Oh, _Jesus_. Don’t tell me things like that.”

“Just the truth.”

Stiles reaches for a tissue and wipes off his sticky face. Lies back down and traces a path down Derek’s chest, around his belly button, and down to the softest part of his tummy. “So why you dragging your balls on me all of a sudden, big guy?”

Derek shrugs. “No reason.” 

“Not because I’m leaving tomorrow, then?”

Derek shifts, pushing his back up against the headboard. Stiles watches, mesmerized, as his belly shifts with him, rounder now that he’s sitting up. “Only partially because you’ll be away from me,” Derek finally says. 

“Why else?” Stiles is genuinely curious. He always is, when the supernatural is involved. 

“You’ll be around other wolves,” Derek admits. 

Stiles cocks his head. “You’re making me smell like you so that the pack will know I’m living with you?”

“They would have known that anyway. You’ve been staying here all summer.” 

“You want them to know you’re fucking me?”

Derek shrugs. 

“Oh my god, you marked your territory,” Stiles crows, giggling a little bit. “You know, you could have just come with me.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles sighs. They’re getting along, but apparently a conversation about Derek going back to Beacon Hills, even for a long weekend, is still off the table. 

*

Stiles has resigned himself to going to Beacon Hills alone by the time Malia calls Derek—and she isn’t even calling about the omega or the pack at all, really. Stiles can tell from Derek’s end of the conversation that they’re talking about Peter. Apparently he’s been “upset” lately. Making dire predictions about “losing Hale territory,” whatever that means, and just generally upsetting the people taking care of him—and imprisoning him. 

Derek has a look on his face that Stiles can’t quite place. It’s a mix of hurt and anger and grief. 

Which, hi. Just one of the many reasons Derek has for _not_ being down for a trip to California. 

“Yeah, Stiles is here,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear muffled enthusiasm from the other end. 

“Hi Malia,” he yells, even though she could hear him even if he’d whispered it. “Put her on speaker, Derek, so I can hear her.”

“Hey, Stiles,” chirps Malia’s disembodied voice, made tinny by the amplification. “So you’re living with Derek?”

“Uh—I mean, yes?” Stiles isn’t sure how to answer that question. Isn’t sure how official they are, or how much Derek wants to share with the pack. Better add that to the long list of Shit They Haven’t Talked About. 

“Cute. All of Stiles’ boyfriends in college were fat, too, Derek,” she says cheerfully. “He’s way into it.”

Yeah, six years in civilization, and she still hasn’t really learned all of the social rules for polite conversation. Stiles sort of figures there’s some stuff that, if you don’t figure it out growing up, you just never learn. 

“Thanks for sharing that, Malia,” Stiles says, fighting off the urge to blush. 

Derek flashes Stiles a knowing look. “He showed me the Instagram pictures,” Derek says, apparently unperturbed. Of course, he’d said that he and Malia were fairly close—he’s probably used to her utter and complete lack of subtlety. Or tact. Or social grace. 

“So you should come with Stiles tomorrow,” Malia continues. 

“I didn’t buy a ticket,” Derek starts to demure, but Stiles cuts him off. 

“Yes! Yes he should, shouldn’t he? Tell him, Malia.”

“You should come, Derek. You’ve been pouting in New Orleans for five years. Get your ass home.” 

*

It’s not that Derek doesn’t fit in an airline seat. He does, he totally does. It’s just that—well. Airplanes—especially in coach, which is of course is all Stiles can afford, and of course Derek buys a ticket on the same flight, also in coach, and pays triple what Stiles paid for the privilege of doing it the night before the trip—are kind of cramped. And Derek is kind of big. Broad shoulders, thick thighs. Knees almost knocking into the seatback in front of him. 

And dear god, Stiles _tries_ not to objectify Derek constantly. He _does_. But watching him wiggle around in his seat? And noticing how his belly sits on top of the seat belt? Feeling his arms brushing against Stiles because he’s just there, invading Stiles’ space? 

Yeah, it’s totally doing it for Stiles. Who feels like a complete asshole, especially when Derek flares his nostrils and then looks over at Stiles with the most judgmental eyebrow ever. 

“What?” he says, widening his eyes. 

“Are you seriously turned on right now?”

“No! Yes. Only a little?”

Derek shakes his head, looking equal parts amused and annoyed. “Jesus, kiddo. Why?”

“You just look really hot,” Stiles says, sticking to the truth. 

Derek gives him a look. “ _Why?_ ”

Stiles squirms. “Becauseyoumakethatseatlookreallysmall,” he mumbles.

“You’re a monster. And I’m actually fucking uncomfortable. The next time you make me do this, I’ll buy first class tickets.” 

Next time? He might willingly do this again? And he just assumes that Stiles will be with him? 

“Thanks, Sugar Daddy,” Stiles pops off, grinning. 

*

Two layovers and eleven hours later, they’re finally back in California. It has been, to be honest, kind of a miserable day. Derek is tense—either because of the prospect of returning to Beacon Hills, or because he really has been uncomfortable on the plane, or something else entirely. Stiles has no idea. And Stiles himself? Well, he had done quite well for the first two flights, but by the time they were sitting on the runway, waiting to take off from LAX to San Francisco, he was pretty much vibrating in his seat with the need to _move_. He’d been stuck in planes and airports all day, and he was at his wit’s end.

Finally, as they were taking off and Stiles was tapping his hands over every available surface, Derek had reached over, put his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, and squeezed. Hard. “ _Stiles_. Be still.”

There was no way it should have worked. If it were that easy to get Stiles to shut up, he’d have spent a lot less time in detention in school. And yet, somehow, it did. Stiles had turned to look at him, and Derek had just stared at him, level and cool. “Sit back. We’re almost done.” 

So Stiles had. Derek had dropped his hand from Stiles’ neck to his thigh, and he’d just held him there, grounded under his big palm, for the rest of the mercifully brief flight. 

When they step outside of the airport, the air feels almost shockingly cool. It’s a beautiful day—but it’s a far cry from the pressure cooker that is early September in Louisiana. The lack of heat is startling. 

Almost, perhaps, as startling as looking up to see that Chris Argent has not only escorted Lydia to the airport to pick them up, but that he is climbing out of the driver’s seat of her Toyota, while Lydia slides gracefully out of the passenger’s seat. 

The significance of this is not lost on Derek, apparently, because he elbows Stiles and gives him a fairly obnoxious “I told you so” stare. 

Lydia wraps Stiles up in a huge hug, which he expects—but he’s a little surprised when Derek and Chris embrace, too, a one-armed but genuine shoulder grab-n-pat. Stiles watches, fascinated. 

On the one hand, it’s a Hale and an Argent. But on the other, it’s two men who’ve both lost pretty much every damn thing. Whatever it is, it makes Stiles happy, watching Derek give Chris an easy smile. 

If Lydia and Chris are surprised that Derek isn’t the underwear model he was five years ago, neither of them say a word. 

*

The pack has dinner at Scott and Kira’s apartment that night. Derek doesn’t want to go—he’d much rather drag Stiles back to their hotel for the night. But he can’t. Hell, he should probably just be grateful they’ve got a hotel room. Stiles had been planning to crash on an air mattress in Scott and Kira’s spare room, and he’d very sincerely tried to convince Derek that the air mattress was a viable option for them both. Derek had balked—and eventually played the “I’m too big to sleep on a fucking air mattress” card. Stiles’ eyes had glazed over slightly, and he’d suddenly been amenable to the room Derek had already reserved at the Hilton. 

Scott’s eyes had widened when Stiles hugged him hello, and his eyes had shot over to Derek. Probably because the kid smelled like Derek had been coming on him all week. Because he had. 

To Scott’s credit, he hadn’t said anything, just given Derek an even look over Stiles’ shoulder, followed by a little nod. 

So Derek tries to make the best of the dinner. Scott and Kira look a little bit like kids playing house, he thinks privately, but he can’t begrudge them their happiness. Their apartment is clearly furnished in hand-me-downs and castoffs from their parents, and it practically screams, “this is our first place.” There’s an enormous pot of spaghetti on their stove and four loaves of garlic bread warm in the oven, though, and the mismatched plates are sort of charming. As is the wine that they’re serving—from a box in their refrigerator. 

He watches, amused, as Chris Argent swirls the wine in his glass and takes a long drink, making a face. Chris notices and tips the glass in his direction, a mock salute, before choking down the rest of it. 

Fucking Chris Argent. Who would have guessed Derek would end up liking the man? Or, hell, that Argent would attend fucking pack meetings?

The dinner conversation centers on the omega and the coven activity, but it’s nothing Derek hasn’t already heard secondhand from Stiles. Derek eyes Scott across the table. He’s a good alpha, but he sure as hell didn’t used to be much of a tracker. Since he’s having this much trouble finding the omega, Derek sort of suspects this is still true. It’s too bad Boyd—it’s too bad Boyd isn’t here for a lot of reasons, reasons that make Derek’s stomach clench and his chest feel too tight. One of those reasons happens to be that Boyd had been an excellent tracker—better than some born wolves. 

From Boyd, he jumps to Erica, and his chest tightens a little more. Fuck. 

This is why he didn’t want to come. Beacon Hills isn’t home. It’s a fucking ghost town. Everywhere he turns is the shadow of someone else, someone that should be here but isn’t. He doesn’t know how Chris Argent stands it. 

He looks over at him, at the way Lydia is sitting too close to him for propriety, even if they’re not actually touching. Her skirt is obscenely short, soft white thighs exposed nearly up to the vee of her legs, and Chris’s hand rests on his own thigh, just a bare inch or two from hers. 

Maybe that’s how he stands it. 

Derek’s plate is empty, and Stiles reaches over and deftly scrapes the remains of his own spaghetti onto Derek’s plate, looks up and gives him the sweetest smile he’s ever seen. 

Fucking kid. When he comes back from the kitchen a minute later, he deposits a couple pieces of garlic bread into Derek’s lap, as well, before settling onto the sofa, cross-legged, beside him. 

Later, Malia produces a Tupperware container full of chocolate chip cookies from somewhere or other. “Dessert,” she pronounces seriously. 

Stiles grins at her. He was always so good with Malia, Derek remembers. Her whole feral child of the forest thing never seemed to freak him out, even when she was more coyote than girl, there at first. “You make them?” Stiles asks. 

“Yup. I’ll give you the recipe and you can make ‘em for Derek,” she says, reaching out and casually tapping Derek’s stomach as she goes past. 

Fucking Malia. Derek had gone the whole evening without one comment about the extra fifty pounds he’s sporting, but leave it to her to break the silence without even realizing she’s done it. 

(And yeah, fifty? It was more than fifty now. Had to be, since none of his jeans button. Jesus. Thank you, Stiles Stilinski.) 

Stiles is blushing beet red, and Kira and Lydia are both giving him very knowing looks. Scott just looks confused—and Liam and Mason don’t appear to have heard the comment at all. 

“Uh—thanks, Malia.” 

“No problem,” she says, given them both an enormous smile. 

“You can’t cook, though,” Scott says.

“I could learn,” Stiles says, looking exasperated. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t already. Derek hasn’t been missing any meals,” Malia says cheerfully, and seriously, Derek will fucking strangle her, even if she is one of the last Hales on earth. 

“Oh my god, okay. Thank you Malia, just give me those fucking cookies,” Stiles says, grabbing the container out of her hands. “Okay, so that omega, Scott. Whatcha gonna do about that?”

*

“You want a cookie?” Stiles asks, flopped across their king size hotel bed that night. 

“I can’t believe you took them with you.”

“She offered!” 

“And you’re shameless.”

Stiles shrugs, then ducks his head. “And now everyone fucking knows.”

“Except Scott, apparently.”

“Scott is an innocent soul. It’s part of his charm.” Stiles pauses, taking a bite of a cookie himself and then handing it to Derek, who willingly takes it. “Do you think he gets up to anything weird with Kira?”

“Nope. Missionary all day.” 

Stiles snorts. “So Chris and Lydia, though.”

“Now those two do weird shit,” Derek says, reaching for another cookie. 

“We should do some weird shit right now, big guy.” Stiles sits up, shucking his shirt over his head, revealing his lean, pretty torso. “Whaddya say?”

“C’mere.”

*

Later, when Stiles is wrapped up in his arms, his breathing slow and deep against Derek’s chest, Derek finally lets himself relax. Maybe this trip will be okay. Maybe—maybe Derek can do this. Maybe it won’t all go sideways, the way it always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are, as always, little drops of heaven. 
> 
> Come follow me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com). I'll bombard your feed with pictures of Bucky Barnes, and you can prompt me for fic, if you like. 
> 
> Oh, and just for the record: I have one more week off until I have to go back to work. So I'll probably be writing like mad for the next week.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek finds himself thrown back into life in Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than usual, and the ending is...well. It's something. <3

They wake up slow and sweet the next morning, swapping blowjobs under the soft hotel sheets. It’s not urgent, not hurried, not anything but good. When Derek slips two of his fingers into Stiles’ mouth alongside his cock, just because he can, just because he wants to, he realizes this is probably the best he’s ever had it with another person. The best it’s ever been.

When they’re getting dressed later, Stiles can’t seem to help himself. “When are you gonna admit those jeans don’t fit, big guy?”

Derek finishes looping the rubber band around the button of his jeans, leaning over slightly to see over his tummy, before he looks up and frowns. “This works.” 

Stiles’ lip twitches, and he pulls his shirt on and walks over to Derek. “Does it, though?” He reaches out and pushes on Derek’s potbelly, which is pooching prominently over the waistband. “Because it sort of looks uncomfortable. And even if you don’t admit that your belly is too big for these jeans, what about this?” He reaches down and runs a finger along the straining seam running the length of Derek’s thigh. “Just get some new jeans, baby. Don’t get me wrong—you look fucking hot, and it’s driving me crazy. But seriously. New jeans. You need them.” 

“I hate shopping.”

“Order that shit online.” 

Derek’s frown deepens. “I don’t know.”

“Give me your credit card and I’ll do it,” Stiles offers. “Then you can save these for wearing at home. For me.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Pervert.”

“I prefer aficionado.”

“Fine.” Derek tugs his wallet out and hands over his Visa. “Like three pairs, okay?”

“You got it.” Stiles pauses, watching as Derek pulls a black t-shirt over his head. “Maybe some new shirts, too?” He can’t hide his grin. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Derek tugs on the hem of his shirt—which _fits_ , damn it. It’s just a little snug around the waist. But it totally fits. “Fine.”

“A variety of v-necks and Henleys, all black, I take it?” 

“I also like gray,” Derek deadpans. 

Stiles laughs, his smile lighting up his whole face, and he leans over and kisses Derek sweetly on the cheek. 

It sort of takes Derek’s breath away.

*

Derek is going with Malia to see Peter in the evening—a task he’s dreading—but first he’s going with Stiles to meet the Sheriff for lunch. A task that he’s also sort of wishing didn’t have to happen, really. It’s not that he doesn’t like the Sheriff. He does, actually. He’s fair and brave and pragmatic—pretty much all you can ask for in a cop. And Derek knows how much Stiles loves him. But Derek’s fucking the hell out of his fresh-faced twenty-two-year-old son. So, all things considered, he’d rather just avoid the man. 

When Stiles had invited Derek to tag along, Derek could see the uncertainty in Stiles’ face. And, to be honest, he wanted to say no. But saying no would mean that Stiles would be away from him all morning, without any protection. With the coven and the omega at large, there’s no fucking way Derek is letting that happen. So lunch with the Sheriff it is. 

The cab drops them off in front of the house, and Stiles’ old Jeep is parked in the driveway, just like always. Derek shakes his head, trying to clear it. For some reason, seeing it parked there makes him feel a little like he’s walked back in time. 

When they get in the door, Derek can’t help but smile a little as he watches Stiles hug his dad. It’s a long, tight embrace, and John actually picks up his lanky, full-grown son a few inches off the ground. “Good to see you,” he says, looking at Stiles like the kid hung the moon. 

Derek knows that feeling. 

“Hey, Dad. Missed you,” Stiles says, before turning back and gesturing to Derek. “I brought Derek, too.” 

“Hey there,” John says, turning to him. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in Derek’s frame, and then he looks back at his son with an expression that is absolutely _knowing_. “I see that. You boys could have stayed here, you know.” 

Stiles ducks his head. “Uh, well—“

“Derek was in your room enough when you were a teenager. Wouldn’t have turned him out now,” John interrupts. Before Derek can really process that, John is holding out a hand to him. “Welcome home, Derek.” 

“Thank you, Sir.” Derek returns the handshake rather automatically, wondering how the hell he has ended up having what is starting to feel a lot like a “meeting the parents” kind of event. 

“You taking good care of Stiles in New Orleans?” John asks, and yeah, apparently everyone is just assuming that they’re together now? Derek cuts his eyes over to Stiles, who just shrugs and gives him a “go with it” hand gesture. 

“Of course,” Derek says inanely. 

And just like that, he’s swept along into the Stilinskis’ kitchen, where John proceeds to make an enormous platter of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches—bachelor food, but good. When John sets out the second bag of chips and two bakery boxes of cookies, Derek starts to wonder if Stiles’ little kink is some sort of genetic abnormality. He shoots Stiles a look, and he just grins and tosses another sandwich onto Derek’s plate. 

Fucking kid. 

*

Derek expects Stiles to kick up a fuss when he insists on dropping him off at Chris Argent’s house before he leaves to go get Malia and see Peter. Stiles doesn’t disappoint. 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” he begins, and Derek can tell he’s gearing up for a diatribe. “And Chris isn’t even a fucking werewolf, so—“

“So he’s still a hunter, and you’re still a very delicate and pretty human that I want to remain in one piece,” Derek cuts him off, his voice sounding gruff even to his own ears. “Just fucking do it, Stiles. Go see Lydia. You always say you miss her, so go hang out with her. This way I don’t have to worry.” 

“Because I can’t take care of myself, apparently. You’re out seeing Peter, Scott and Liam are tracking the omega, and I’m supposed to go sit with Lydia and do nothing.” Stiles slumps in the passenger’s side of the Jeep. “You’re driving my Jeep, you’re telling me what to do—bossy-ass werewolf.”

Derek snorts. “I’m borrowing your car because I have to. I’d kill for the Camaro. And just humor me, okay? It’ll be a couple of hours. I’ll be back by 9:00.”

“Fine, fine.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “But I’m gonna talk Lydia into getting drunk with me.”

“Go for it, kiddo. Whatever you want.” 

“As long as Chris is there to babysit, you mean?” 

“Yes. That.” 

*

Stiles isn’t actually mad at Derek. He’s pouting, a little, but he’s not really mad. That protective thing Derek’s got going on is kind of sweet—although Stiles doesn’t plan on admitting it. 

Anyway, it’s not actually that big of a hardship to spend the evening with Lydia. And Chris. Although Chris seems content to make himself scarce and let Stiles and Lydia catch up, anyway. Stiles only sees the man for about three minutes, total, before he disappears into the garage, presumably to polish his weapons or whatever it is Chris Argent does in his free time. 

“So you and Chris, huh?” Stiles asks the moment they get settled together on the sofa, wine bottle and glasses in hand. 

Lydia raises her eyebrows. “I suppose I deserve that after I gave you that shit about Derek?”

“And I ‘fessed up. So.” 

“Yes, me and Chris.” 

Stiles leans back, eyeballing Lydia as she pours them each a glass of white. “How?” he finally asks. 

She shrugs, tossing a perfect red curl over her shoulder. “I think it was a long time coming. “

“Because?” Stiles prompts.

“It started because he was the only person who missed Allison more than me,” she says, and Stiles winces. That may, in fact, be the saddest basis for a relationship that he has ever heard. Ever. 

Lydia shoots him a smile. “And then because he’s—very good at what he does.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “And what, exactly, is that?” 

Lydia stretches like a cat, looking satisfied as hell and not the least bit ashamed. “Let’s just say I require a firm hand.” 

Well, shit. So Derek had called it pretty much dead to rights. Stiles shakes his head. “Good for you, Lyds. You pervert.” 

“Oh, shush.” Lydia takes a drink, her eyes sparkling over her wineglass. “Go feed Derek another cookie, why don’t you?”

*

When the call comes through from Scott, Chris looks—well. He never looks panicked, and Stiles figures that’s because the man has already lived through the worst things that can ever happen to a person. He just looks resigned. 

“I have to go,” he says, striding through the living room, already strapping weapons to his chest and hips. “They didn’t find the omega. There’s an entire pack in the preserve. Scott and Liam are surrounded.” He leans over and drops a kiss on Lydia’s forehead, then puts another on the corner of her mouth, tangling his hand in her hair for just a moment. Apparently he either knew Lydia was going to tell Stiles about them, or he’s just distracted enough to forget to keep it a secret. 

When he stretches back up to standing, the soft expression he’d had for Lydia is gone, and he looks frightening again, as much like a killer as any of the supernatural creatures Stiles has ever seen. “Lydia, lock the door behind me. Stiles, try to call Derek. He and Malia need to get to the preserve. Scott’s been calling and he can’t get an answer.”

So much for having a babysitter. 

*

The visit with Peter is—difficult, to say the least. Peter is making dire predictions, railing about the loss of Hale territory in Northern California. Derek doesn’t have the heart to remind him that there isn’t even a Hale pack anymore, let alone territory. He doesn’t sympathize with his uncle’s fervor for power, but he _does_ mourn the loss of the Hale dynasty. Generations of Hales had presided over Beacon Hills and the valley around it, and his mother had been the very last. Now the only ones left are her mentally insane brother, his illegitimate coyote daughter, and Talia’s two kids, both run as far from Beacon Hills as they can. It’s not an impressive legacy. 

Neither his nor Malia’s phone rings the entire time they’re in Peter’s little cell of a room, and Derek doesn’t think about that as a problem or an anomaly. It’s only when they finally leave, heading up out of the maze of subterranean concrete walls that make up Eichen House’s supernatural ward and into the parking lot, that both of their phones start to vibrate incessantly, apparently once again in cell tower range. 

Derek only scrolls through the first couple of texts before he’s sprinting, Malia right beside him. 

“They’re surrounded at the preserve,” Malia says, and her voice is already starting to distort just a bit, her shift already starting, her eyes as blue as his own.

“Go, take the Jeep,” Derek says, tugging the keys free from his pocket and tossing them to her. “I have to get to Stiles. I’ll just run. It’s faster.”

He’s already toeing out of his boots, pulling his t-shirt over his head, when Malia lays a hand on his arm. “You’re going into the city in a full shift?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he growls. “Now go.” 

*

It’s been years since Derek has run full out like this—not sprinting for the joy of it, but from terror. He keeps to the shadows when he can, but mostly he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care if he’s seen, doesn’t care what people might think of a huge black wolf running through the suburbs. Doesn’t care about anything but the boy he left in Chris Argent’s fucking living room.

In a full shift, he can’t quite articulate his fear to himself—all he can really think is _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_. 

When he gets there, the front door is hanging wide open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how this much plot happened. But here we are. 
> 
> Let me know how you feel in the comments, and come play with me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com)!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no way to summarize this that doesn't spoil it. Some shit gonna happen, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I've ever written a fic this fast. I have to go back to work Monday, and I have SO. MUCH. CRAP. that has to be done before then--so, naturally, I am producing fanfiction at a truly alarming rate. You're welcome.

Stiles wakes up in stages, first becoming aware of himself, then his surroundings, then the fact that Lydia is also there. Like Stiles himself, she’s tied to a support beam, maybe fifteen feet away.

Okay, so if there’s one good thing about this—and when you’ve been kidnapped and wake up in a warehouse, there is precious little good happening—it’s that they are together, that he can see her, that he can tell she isn’t hurt. At least, no more hurt than he is, waking up from a sharp knock to the head. He feels a little dizzy, probably a little concussed. But alive. 

His ankles are bound together. His wrists, as well, knotted together behind the support beam at his back. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but it has to have been a long time—his ass is completely numb from the concrete floor. His back hurts. His arms ache like hell. 

As far as he can tell, they’re alone now, although he keeps darting his eyes around the big, empty space, looking for any sign of the omega or the apparently human guy who seemed to be helping him. Stiles has never heard of an omega werewolf having a Renfield, but that’s sort of what this setup had seemed like, when they’d broken in. The human guy had smashed the front window in Chris’s living room and broke the line of mountain ash, and then the omega had charged through. It had been a matter of seconds before the omega had attacked, and then—over. Lights out. 

And now here they are. 

Stiles can’t help but think that, assuming he gets out of this alive, he probably owes Derek at least a little bit of an apology. Clearly, his reservations about Beacon Hills were not entirely unfounded. 

“Lydia,” he stage whispers, trying to get her attention. She’s been twitching now and then for the last ten minutes or so, coming up slow and groggy, just like he had. 

“What?” she says, lifting her head a bit and raising an eyebrow at him. She’s managing to look like he’s disrupting her beauty sleep somehow, even though she has the beginnings of a pretty good goose egg on the side of her forehead from where she got hit. Such a grade A diva. Stiles loves her for it. 

“Are you okay?”

“I think I broke a nail.” Lydia pulls against her restraints, testing them, but she can’t move much. She sighs theatrically. “Chris is going to be so fucking pissed.”

“About your nail?” 

Lydia rolls her eyes. “No, you idiot. That I’m here.” 

“Think he’s with Derek?”

“He better be, and they better be on their way over here,” Lydia says, sounding both demanding and unconcerned, as if she has zero fucks to give that she’s been kidnapped and tied to a pole in a creepy ass warehouse. 

“You think Chris will rescue you?” Stiles is curious about her confidence. 

“Yes, or die trying.” If that’s false bravado talking, in case their kidnappers are listening, Lydia deserves an Academy Award. She sounds absolutely convinced. 

Stiles nods, looking down at his lap. Derek will come for him, too, he knows. What he doesn’t know is what it’s costing Derek right now, to be doing this. To think that he’s lost another person. To have been back in Beacon Hills twenty-four fucking hours before everything fell apart. 

If Stiles gets out of this mess, he’ll apologize for dragging Derek back here. Maybe he was right all along. Maybe they should have stayed in New Orleans. They could be eating greasy catfish po boys at the bar, chatting with Katie, drinking Abitas and laughing together right now. Derek could be stretching his legs out under the table and tangling them together with Stiles’, so that Stiles feels safe, _connected_ , even when they’re just sitting in the corner booth on a lazy Saturday night.

Instead he’s here, and Derek is god knows where. And it’s all Stiles’ fault. 

*

Derek takes a breath, trying to keep from going into a full shift out of pure rage. He needs to be able to talk. Needs to stay at least partially human. 

“Deaton, just tell me where the coven was. That’s all I need to know.” 

Chris is standing behind him, and Derek can smell the turmoil on him, the anger and fear, all overlaid with the bitter, acrid scent of growing despair. If he loses Lydia—well. He can’t lose Lydia. Can’t lose another person. Derek knows that feeling well. Knows exactly how high the stakes are, when you’ve had nothing for so long, and you suddenly have something to lose again. 

It’s fucking terrifying.

“I’m not sure what the coven has to do with the other pack that moved through tonight, _or_ with the omega,” Deaton says, looking as if he’s preparing himself a lengthy monologue where he waxes philosophic and is about as clear as a muddy screen. 

“There is no fucking other pack!” Derek’s voice is distorted, and he can hear the lisp from his fangs, which feel uncomfortably large in his own mouth. “If there was another pack, why the fuck wouldn’t they have taken Scott and Liam when they had the chance? Why hang around till we get there, then run?” He inhales, trying again to calm himself. “Just tell me where the coven activity was. _Fucking tell me_.”

Deaton looks affronted, as if he’s amazed Derek thinks he’s ever less than helpful. “I sensed residual magic in the abandoned factory west of town,” he says. “I spoke with Scott about it, and he mentioned some indigenous plants that had been taken from the preserve. I assumed those two things were connected—“

“The abandoned factory and warehouses on the access road off the highway?” Derek cuts him off. He doesn’t give a shit about how Deaton pieced this together. If he’s right about what happened, he needs to get to the fucking warehouse. Now. 

“Yes, and I –“ 

“Let’s go,” Derek says, turning. Chris is already striding for the door. 

*

After another half an hour tied to the pole, Stiles is weirdly bored by this whole thing. The omega and his sidekick are nowhere to be found—probably standing watch outside? Maybe? But the upshot is that he’s tied up, his ass is numb from the concrete, and he’s kind of getting restless. The terror he’d felt at first had receded to a comfortable distance, a dull roar rather than a scream, and he’s just…ready to fucking go home. 

Of course, things aren’t looking real good on that front. 

When they finally hear commotion outside the door, Stiles’ first thought is simply that it’s about time _something_ happens. 

There’s a series of ear shattering growls and roars—enough that it sounds like the whole pack must be there—and then the side door to the warehouse bursts open. The omega flies into the room, shifted and crouching in a defensive stance, putting himself between Stiles and Lydia and the front door. Behind him comes Renfield and three other people, two women and a man. 

_Witches_ , Stiles thinks suddenly, although there’s no reason for him to think that, nothing to suggest it except gut instinct. 

And then, like a tidal wave, the heavy metal front doors are pulled from their hinges, and the pack comes rushing through. Scott’s eyes are glowing red, Kira’s wielding her katana, and everyone is there—but Stiles barely sees them. They fade to the background, because there, in front of them, is a gorgeous, terrifying black wolf. 

The wolf looks at Stiles once, its blue eyes piercing, and then it’s charging straight at the omega. 

The women—witches?—behind the omega start mumbling something that Stiles assumes are spells or incantations, but before they can get much said, Chris Argent appears from behind the pack, reaching across his body for the heavy sidearms on each hip. His eyes are terribly cold—as terrifying as Derek’s ice blue ones, in their own way—and his big guns blaze over and over. The two women fall first, and then the man. 

In the split seconds that it takes for Stiles to register all of this, there’s an inhuman scream coming from the omega. When Stiles jerks his head back, the omega is on the ground, throat ripped out, and the black wolf on top of him has turned his bloody muzzle to the ceiling in a howl. 

There’s only one person left that isn’t pack—Renfield, standing in the middle of the room looking shocked. With a casual kind of carelessness, Chris raises one gun, one more time, and lazily fires. Renfield falls. 

After that, things happen fast. Chris is running to Lydia, literally stepping over the bodies of the four people he murdered to get to her. Stiles realizes distantly that she’s crying. Huh. Her confidence earlier must have been for show, then. When Chris gets to her, he’s whispering something in her ear, even before he cuts her free, and she slumps against his shoulder. Stiles can’t hear it, of course, but he wonders what he could possibly say to her that has her relaxing before she’s even untied. 

Then Scott is on him, slicing through his ropes with his claws. He even reaches out to help Stiles to his feet, but suddenly the black wolf is between them, enormous and horribly beautiful, growling low at his alpha. Scott promptly steps back, as if he recognizes that in a full shift like this, Derek doesn’t submit. To anyone. 

Stiles freezes, mesmerized, and just stays where he is, still sitting on the floor. The wolf stares at him for a moment, the growl fading in its throat—and then it stretches forward, sniffing at his neck, down his front, as if it wants to smell Stiles from head to toe. 

Stiles almost reaches out a hand, wanting desperately to feel that silky black fur between his fingers, to see if it’s as soft as it looks, but something stops him. Maybe it’s the sheer size of the wolf, or the utter wildness of it. This is nothing like a regular shift, where human features are distorted. This is—this is a wild fucking animal, a predator, and Stiles has no idea how deeply below the surface Derek goes when he’s shifted like this. 

The blood of the man—werewolf—he just killed is still on his muzzle. 

Stiles thinks, rather belatedly, that he might faint. 

*

That night, when they’re finally back at the hotel, Stiles crawls into bed and into Derek’s lap, just forcing himself in until Derek’s practically cradling him. It’s ridiculous, and he shouldn’t need to be babied like this. But he _does_ , and he’s not even sure why. As kidnappings go, this one was pretty mild—this was nothing like the time Gerard Argent got ahold of him, for instance. And, hell, the whole thing had been resolved in, like, six hours, total. This was just like a sort of shitty evening, really.

But somehow, this time, it had been worse. Waiting for Derek. Not knowing where he was. 

Having everything to lose. 

“How did you know where to find us?” Stiles asks, turning his face into Derek’s body, nuzzling at his chest, resting his cheek on the top of Derek’s belly. 

Derek pets Stiles’ hair, tangling his fingers in it. “Because of you, kiddo.”

“Huh?” Stiles blinks, raising his eyes but not bothering to lift his head. 

“There wasn’t a pack in the preserve. Scott and Liam weren’t ever surrounded. It was a coven. The howling of the other pack was all an illusion.”

Stiles still doesn’t sit up, but his body tenses. “So you mean—“

“You were right, about the stuff you found in the archive,” Derek says, still petting him gently. “The omega was part of the coven. The illusion in the preserve was a distraction to get you and Lydia alone, so the omega could take you.”

Stiles is silent for a moment, taking it in. “Okay, but _why_? Why would they want us? Lydia and I are the weakest members of the pack.” 

“For that reason,” Derek says. “They weren’t powerful enough to control wolves, but they thought if they got you or Lydia, they could bargain with the rest of the pack. They wanted the coven and the pack to merge.”

Finally, Stiles raises his head and pulls himself into a sitting position, still halfway in Derek’s lap. “You mean—seriously? They wanted to join the pack and make us all witches?”

Derek shrugs. “Witches. Familiars. Something. Exactly like you found in the archive.”

Stiles starts to grin a little. “You mean the stuff you thought was a waste of time?”

“I never said that,” Derek says quietly. 

“No, you didn’t,” Stiles says, sobering. Derek sounds so serious. 

“I just—fuck, Stiles. I didn’t want to come back here.”

Stiles huffs. “Yeah, you may have had a point.”

They fall quiet again, but it’s an easy silence, calm, and Stiles lies back down against Derek.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Derek says a few minutes later. “Concussion, probably.”

Stiles groans. “But I’m tired.”

“Too bad.”

“Fine.” Stiles wiggles a little, kissing at the soft, vulnerable spot between Derek’s pec and his belly. Not with any intentions, just because his mouth is there, just because he can. 

“I saw your full shift,” he says. 

“Yeah.” 

Stiles smiles a little bit, his lips curving against Derek’s tummy. “I couldn’t tell if you were chubby, though. Too much fur. Plus you didn’t show me your belly.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, doesn’t answer. 

*

A few hours later, when dawn is starting to break in the east, Derek finally decides it’s safe for Stiles to sleep. Thank god—Stiles is so tired he hurts. 

Derek slips into the bathroom, tells Stiles he’ll be in bed in a minute. 

When he comes back, it’s on four legs instead of two.

“Holy fucking _shit_ , Derek!” Stiles squeaks when he sees him. He scrambles back a little bit, uneasy, and Derek whimpers, cocking his head to one side, looking eerily dog-like.

He doesn’t jump on the bed, just sits there at the foot. Lolls his tongue out a little. 

Slowly, Stiles starts to relax, and then he’s scooting down to the edge of the bed. Of course. Fear is no match for curiosity where Stiles is concerned. 

“Can I—uh—can I touch you?”

Derek pants a few times, whines. Puts his nose on the bed. Stiles grins, interpreting consent and reaching out. He gives Derek’s snout—and the teeth under it—a wide berth, but he rubs his hands over the top of Derek’s head, scratching behind his ears. 

A moment later and Stiles is on the floor next to him, running his hands through the fur on Derek’s back. Derek shifts on his haunches, until he’s looking directly at Stiles. He whines a few times, and then slowly, deliberately drops down and rolls onto his back. 

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “Does this mean I get to touch your belly?” 

Derek pants, and Stiles takes it as acquiescence. “Okay, big guy,” he breathes, reaching down carefully, so carefully, and laying his hands on the belly of the giant black wolf beside him.

*

“So you saved my life,” Stiles says later, when Derek is shifted back and they’re cuddled in bed, almost asleep as the sun is rising fully, peeking through the edges of the blackout curtains. 

Derek shrugs. He doesn’t want to think about it. Just wants to relish having Stiles in his arms, safe. Where he’s supposed to be. The kid is going to be lucky if Derek lets him leave the hotel room again. If he could, he’d just fuck him senseless and order room service till their flight out on Monday.

“So I guess you’re not too fat to run around like a badass werewolf,” Stiles continues, his voice teasing and light. He pinches Derek’s side a little. 

Fucking kid. “Gee, thanks.”

“But your wolf is totally chubby.” Stiles pats Derek’s tummy, sounding absolutely gleeful now. “He’s chubby right here, same as you.” 

“He _is_ me,” Derek grumbles. 

“I know,” Stiles says, settling himself against Derek even more closely. He’s quiet for a minute. “Thanks for rolling over for me like that.”

Derek hums, not sure how to respond. “I’d rip out anyone else’s throat for touching me like that,” he finally says. 

He can feel Stiles smile against his chest. “I know, big guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who were wondering about whether or not Derek's wolf was chubby--um, was there really any question? OF COURSE IT IS BECAUSE REASONS.
> 
>  
> 
> Tune in next time, when the boys go back to New Orleans and probably just have a lot of sex and nothing important happens. Also because reasons. 
> 
>  
> 
> As always: your comments bring me great joy and make me want to keep writing this fic forever. And I'd love to play with you on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3K of feedist trash and porn to cleanse the palate after those last few plotty chapters?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever written a fic and looked at the tags and just thought WTF have I done? Because I look at the tags on this thing and I'm like, "Okay, it's a wg fic--and it's set in New Orleans, okay--wait, and kidnapping? With guns? And fortune telling? What the fuck even is this?" Lord help me, I know not what I do.

It surprises Stiles, how glad he is to be back in New Orleans. There’s almost a visceral sense of relief, just stepping off the plane, and it only intensifies when they get into the Camaro, into the city, into their neighborhood. By the time they’re in the apartment, Stiles feels like a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying is lifted off of his shoulders. He doesn’t mention it to Derek, but he wonders if he feels the same way.

The first few days back are a blur. Stiles works the morning shift at Coffee Call, and in the afternoons he lazes about with Derek, walking down Magazine Street to get burritos at Juan’s, or just staying in all day, watching Netflix and having slow, leisurely sex on the couch. It feels like they’ve earned it, doing nothing. 

*

On Friday morning, Stiles’ phone chirps a reminder at him, and the words “FULL MOON TONIGHT YO” pop up on his screen. Derek, lying next to him in bed, snorts. 

“What? Laugh it up. I live my life surrounded by you people. Constant vigilance, buddy.” 

“Because your knowing it’s the full moon is the only thing that’s keeping me from ripping you apart?”

“At least I’ll know it’s coming.”

“Uh huh.” 

“So are you gonna run tonight?” Stiles asks, trying to look nonchalant. Probably failing. 

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Why? Would you like me to?”

Stiles shrugs. “I mean, whatever you want. But last time—umm, last time you didn’t, that was fun.”

Derek laughs—a hoarse, barky little laugh that Stiles loves because, even now, it’s so rare. “You mean last time when I ate till I could barely get off the couch and then you fed me ice cream? That time?”

“Yeah? That time?” Stiles ducks his head. “It’s sort of our anniversary.” As soon as he says it, he immediately regrets it. He and Derek have never once discussed what they are. They’ve never talked about labels, or timelines, or—any of it. 

Derek, bless him, just says, “So you’re saying you’d like a repeat performance?”

Stiles grins. “Maybe. I’ll cook for you?” He blushes a little. Somehow that feels weirdly intimate, and he’s not sure why—except, of course, for the voice in his head that’s happily screaming, _let me feed you, let me love you, take this food I made for you from my hand because I want to take care of you_ , and yeah, maybe that’s why he’s blushing. 

“Oh yeah? Scott says you can’t cook, though.” 

“I can totally cook…a couple of things,” Stiles defends. “Lasagna, maybe?”

Derek stretches, arching his back and putting his arms behind his head, still looking sleepy and morning-soft. “Yeah, kiddo. Go for it.”

*

By the time evening rolls around, Stiles sort of wishes—just for today—that Derek had a job, the kind where he’d be gone until 6:00 or so, and he could come home and Stiles would have dinner ready for him. Partly he wishes this because Derek is hovering while he cooks, stealing bites of mozzarella and bossing Stiles about how to boil the noodles so they don’t stick, and it’s equal parts endearing and annoying. And partly he wishes this because, while he’s browning sausage and ground beef at the stove, Derek walks through the kitchen to get a beer and swats him on the ass, says, “Such a good little housewife,” on his way past. It’s not a hard swat—just an affectionate little tap that tingles more than it hurts—and Derek doesn’t even stop as he goes by. Just a casual remark. Just teasing. 

But yeah. Now Stiles is entertaining all sorts of kinky 1950s domestic fantasies that he didn’t even know he had. It’s not like he actually wants to be a housewife. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even, really, want Derek to call him one—well. Probably not. Maybe once. While he bends him over the table and fucks the life out of him after he’s come home from a long day at work and Stiles has burned dinner, and Derek takes it out on his ass. 

_Okaaaay_. For Christ’s sake. Where does he even get this shit? He peeks around the corner of the kitchen, to where Derek is sprawled on the couch, drinking a beer and idly flipping through the channels. Derek catches his eye and gives him a lazy, knowing onceover. 

Goddammit. The man looks like he fucking knows what Stiles is thinking.

Or more like he can just smell that Stiles is thinking about something fucking deviant. Which he can. And Stiles is. 

Goddammit. 

*

Stiles doesn’t let himself think too deeply about how pleased he is to be _serving Derek dinner_ when he dumps a truly enormous slice of lasagna onto his plate and carries it into the living room. 

Derek, of course, seems to have a sixth sense for weird shit that gives Stiles a boner, so he sits up and snarks, “What, honey, you didn’t set the table?” 

“Just shut up and eat,” Stiles says, without heat. 

Derek grins, setting his beer down on the coffee table. “C’mere.” He pats the couch next to him. 

Stiles does, balancing his own—much smaller—plate on his lap. 

Derek flips the channel to a marathon of _Supernatural_ reruns, which Stiles knows he does entirely for Stiles’ benefit, as Derek has made his own disdain for the show entirely clear. 

“Oh, this is a good one,” Stiles says happily. “Dean’s about to get chased by hellhounds. God, Season Three was such a good year.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “This show is ridiculous.”

“Is not. Besides, look at all the eye candy.”

Derek swallows a huge bite and wrinkles his nose, considering. “Eh. Young Sam was sort of cute.” 

“Ugh, you’re crazy. Dean forever,” Stiles says, scooting a little until his thigh is brushing Derek’s. 

“Really?”

“Yup.” 

“Why?” Derek gives him an appraising look. 

“It’s a running gag on the show that he eats shit food constantly, and Jensen Ackles for real looks like he only stays skinny by the skin of his teeth, that’s why.” 

“God, you’re predictable.”

Stiles gives him a shit-eating, unapologetic grin. “I like what I like. Oh, shit, you remember Benny from Season Eight?”

“No, Stiles, I do not, because I don’t actually watch the show.” 

“Ugh, Benny was sexy as fuck. Oh, oh, and he was from Louisiana! And a vampire, and _totally_ chubby.” He leans over, laying one hand on Derek’s belly and planting a noisy kiss on his cheek. “I do have a type.”

“Vampires and werewolves are not the same.” 

“Close enough, big guy. Close enough.”

*

Derek’s slowed down considerably by the time he’s finishing his third plate, and Stiles’ own dinner has long since been abandoned in favor of pretty much blatantly watching Derek. 

“You want more?” Stiles asks, not really bothering to try to act like it’s not a loaded question, like he’s not gagging for it. “Or, um—there’s brownies, too.” 

Derek looks from his empty plate to the coffee table, as if measuring the distance he’ll have to move forward to set it down. He ultimately seems to thinks better of it and just plops the plate down beside him on the couch. His belly looks so fucking _round_ , and Stiles can barely look away from it. 

“You made brownies?” Derek asks. 

“Ah, no, but I bought brownies.” Stiles leans forward, puts one hand on either side of Derek’s gut. “You want some?”

“Sure, kiddo.”

So Stiles feeds him brownies. They’re hot fudge brownies, the kind with rich bakery frosting over the top, a tin of them , cut into nine perfect little squares. 

Derek manages six of them before he’s shifting uncomfortably, jeans—the old ones that don’t button, anyway—completely open and unzipped so that his belly can bloat forward. 

“So can we do this every full moon?” Stiles asks, setting the tin down on the coffee table and grinning. 

“I don’t know, I might get fat,” Derek jokes. 

“I’d still fuck you. It would be a hardship, but I’d manage. I’m a good guy like that.”

“Very generous of you,” Derek says, running one hand along the bottom curve of his belly, cradling it gently, like it might be sore. 

“Does your belly hurt?” Stiles asks, tapping it lightly. 

“A little.” 

Stiles inhales. He touches Derek’s belly all the time—grabs it while they’re fucking, holds it when he falls asleep. If he’s within touching distance of Derek, odds are he’s squeezing him somewhere around his middle, because—well. Because Stiles is a single-minded pervert, really. 

All that touching, though, and Stiles hasn’t really rubbed Derek’s belly after he’s eaten too much. Maybe a grab here or there, in the context of sex, but not just because Derek’s stuffed and swollen, lazy and over-indulged. And _fuck_ , Stiles wants to. But, like always, he’s a little scared to do it, always wondering when he’s going to cross the line that has Derek pushing him away for being a fetishizing weirdo. 

But—fuck. Now it’s all he wants to do. So he reaches forward, pushes up Derek’s t-shirt until it’s wrinkled over the top curve of his gut. “You look really hot,” he mumbles. 

“I look really full.” Derek groans a little, shifting even further back, like he can’t get comfortable. 

“That too.” Stiles pushes tentatively on the side of Derek’s belly, then across the top. Down to the soft part that sits above the elastic of his briefs. 

“Can I rub it?” Stiles asks, tracing little circles across the roundest, fullest part, pushing down, kneading. 

“Already are, looks like,” Derek says, looking down at Stiles’ hands on his tummy. He trimmed his beard down, closer than usual, today, and the softness around his jaw—not quite a double chin, but a little extra padding—is more pronounced. Looking down makes it show up, and Stiles wants to lean forward and bite it. Fuck. There’s nothing about Derek that _doesn’t_ turn him on. 

“Feel good?” Stiles asks, pushing down a little more firmly, mesmerized by the way Derek’s belly shifts and moves under his hands, soft pudge spread over a firm, round ball. 

Derek nods. “Mmhm.” 

Stiles keeps going, gradually moving lower and lower, until his fingers are trailing under the elastic of Derek’s briefs. He tugs the elastic out, looking at the red lines they’ve left on Derek’s skin. “Those are getting tight, too,” he says, tracing the red indentations.

Derek hums, shifting again, jostling his belly forward against Stiles’ hands. “Your fault.” 

Stiles pats Derek’s belly gently. “Sorry not sorry.” 

“Brat.” Stiles’ dick lurches a little at the new endearment, and Derek smirks at him. 

“Hop up,” Derek says, smacking Stiles firmly on the flank, like he’s an animal being herded. 

*

Derek strips down and settles on the bed, finding himself in the same position he often is with Stiles—wanting to fuck him senseless, but too full and lazy to really want to put that much effort in. 

He’d worry that the kid thought he was a lazy lay, but Stiles’ pupils are completely blown, and he smells like desperation and heat, like he’s one step away from just humping Derek’s leg until he comes. 

So Derek lays himself down, careful not to jostle his bloated belly, which looks big even to his own eyes. He tucks a couple pillows underneath his head, and then crooks a finger at Stiles. 

“C’mere, kiddo.”

Stiles climbs carefully onto him, giving his full belly plenty of room, and they kiss, lazy and slow, until Stiles is grinding against him, whimpering a little. 

“Get up for a second, baby,” Derek says, letting his voice slip an octave, knowing what it will do to Stiles. Stiles pulls himself up to his knees and just waits for more instructions. He’s beautiful—cheeks flushed, pretty cock hard and full, muscles in his chest and belly tensed, anxious. 

Derek wants to watch him fall apart. 

“Climb up here.” Derek grabs Stiles’ hip and pulls him up, positions him so that Stiles is on all fours above him, face over Derek’s crotch. Stiles promptly leans down, like he means to suck Derek’s cock, but Derek tugs him backward. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, kissing the soft, pretty skin of Stiles’ perfect little ass. “Gonna get you ready like this tonight.”

Stiles makes a noise that is somewhere between a whine and a moan. Derek hasn’t even really touched him yet. 

Derek bites and licks and sucks, over Stiles’ ass cheeks, between them, at the delicate skin of his thighs, dragging his tongue over Stiles’ hole but never focusing on it, purposely skipping over it, until Stiles starts to beg in earnest. 

“Please, Derek, please, please, fuck-- _please_ ,” he says, and Derek wonders if he even knows what he’s saying, or if the words are just falling out. 

“What do you want, kiddo?” 

Stiles pushes himself back until he’s practically sitting on Derek’s face. “Want your tongue. Want your fingers. Fuck, Derek, want—get me wet, open me up,” he babbles, words getting filthier as he gets more desperate. 

“That’s so good, baby,” Derek says, obliging him by finally licking over the cleft of his ass and around his hole. “So good,” he whispers, tonguing him for the first time. 

Stiles starts to whimper almost immediately, before Derek really gets inside him at all, as if just the _idea_ of Derek’s tongue in his ass is enough to pull him apart. So Derek opts for filth instead of anything resembling finesse, dragging his tongue over Stiles’ hole, rubbing his scruff against the delicate skin until it’s pink and sensitive, making him wet enough that he can slide his finger inside without lube, just spit. 

When he works his tongue in alongside his finger, Stiles bucks forward, dropping his forehead down on Derek’s belly. “Fuck, Derek, please, I can’t—I can’t—please, just fuck me, please, no more.”

Derek works his tongue out slowly. “Shh,” he soothes nonsensically, working in a second finger. “Just take it for me.” 

And Stiles does, beautifully, grinding back, fucking himself on Derek’s hand. His breath hitches, and Derek smells tears. 

“So good, kiddo, so good.”

“So good,” Stiles echoes back, sniffling. He sounds absolutely wrecked, and Derek finally takes pity on him, even though a part of him wants to see what will happen if he just keeps it up. 

“Turn around, baby. Want you to ride me, now. Can you do that, baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Stiles chants, scrambling over and around until he’s straddling Derek. 

“Get the lube, baby.” 

“I’m wet, I don’t care—“

Derek’s cock jumps at that, but he still puts his hand on Stiles’ arm. “You’ll care tomorrow. Get it.” 

Stiles gets it, but he doesn’t slick himself at all, just dumps some on Derek’s cock and tosses the bottle to the floor. 

“Now? Please?” Derek just nods, and Stiles sinks down onto his cock, hard. It has to hurt, but Stiles doesn’t even flinch, just slides down onto Derek’s cock and grinds himself forward, pushes his cock directly into Derek’s belly. 

Derek starts to grab Stiles’ hips, direct him, but he thinks better of it, wanting to see what the boy will do if he leaves him to his own devices. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, just sets a brutal pace. He rests his hands on Derek’s biceps, thrusting his cock forward with every down stroke. 

When Stiles comes, painting Derek’s swollen belly white and clenching on Derek’s cock, it puts Derek on the edge of his own climax. His eyes flutter shut and he lets it roll over him, pleasure crashing in waves as he fills up his boy. 

*

“You don’t have any stretch marks.” 

Derek blinks. He’d been on the very edge of sleep when Stiles had piped up. He should really quit trying to go to sleep until he’s sure Stiles is done talking. The kid makes a habit out of striking up inane conversation about ten minutes after they’ve turned out the light. 

“What?”

“You don’t have stretch marks.” Stiles slides his hand over Derek’s gut, grabs onto the soft flesh of his side. “And, like, you probably should? I mean, pretty much every other guy your size has had ‘em, and you’ve got this thing”—he pauses to jiggle Derek’s belly for emphasis, as if Derek might have been confused about what Stiles meant—but your skin is all perfect and shit.” 

“Where are you going with this, Stiles?”

“It just seems _weird_ , is all.”

Derek sighs. Stiles is one of the smartest people he knows, but sometimes he’s dumb as a bag of hammers. “Werewolf, Stiles. I turn _into something else_. That’s kind of already a lot of stretching.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Stiles starts to _giggle_. “You don’t have stretch marks because you’re fucking _magic_ , Derek.”

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a little old guy at the grocery store called me "kiddo" today and I actually took a step back, like "what the fuck, creeper, are you hitting on me?" and then remembered that kiddo doesn't actually have sexual connotations. I've just been writing this fic for my entire winter break and it's warping me. So. 
> 
> Comments are love--come see me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles has feelings about Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably warn you guys that the next chapter, I think, will be the last--we're getting close, y'all.

One afternoon in late September, Stiles comes home from his shift at Coffee Call to find Derek sitting at the kitchen table, black rimmed glasses perched on his nose, skimming through the photocopies Stiles had brought home from the archive the day before.

Stiles almost freezes, afraid to approach, like Derek is a wild animal that will run as soon as it’s spooked. 

Derek has never taken an interest in Stiles’ work, even since Labor Day, when it was clearly validated. He’s been supportive—never complained when Stiles spends hours at Tulane. Never bitches when Stiles strews photocopies and notes all over the kitchen table, or tacks up papers to the wall, or puts them on the front of the fridge, or hangs them on the mirror of the bathroom because he “thinks a lot in the shower.” But Derek’s also never tried to help. This is new. And God, it’s something Stiles wants to happen. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, feeling weirdly shy. “Whatcha got there, big guy?”

“The stuff you brought home about Marie Laveau,” Derek explains, even though Stiles didn’t really have to ask. 

“The Voodoo Queen of New Orleans,” Stiles chirps. On Bourbon Street, tourists can visit Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo and buy voodoo dolls and have their palms read. If they’re feeling particularly adventurous, they can go to the St. Louis Cemetery and wander through the maze of above-ground crypts (the only way to bury the dead in a city below sea level) until they come to the one purported to be Marie’s, where they can write an X on the stone of her crypt and make a wish—or a curse. Stiles likes Marie—has been digging up everything he can find about her, both for a project for his Folklore and the Archive class and also just for fun. 

“The Tourist Commodity of New Orleans.” Derek rolls his eyes. He looks gentle, though—not dismissive. 

“You don’t think she was real?” Stiles asks, padding over and pushing at Derek’s shoulder until he leans back and Stiles can plop onto his lap. 

“I think there was a real person who claimed to practice magic and a lot of people believed her,” Derek says. 

“I don’t know, did you watch Coven? That shit looked pretty real,” Stiles jokes. 

Derek rolls his eyes again, setting his pencil down and wrapping his arms around Stiles, dropping a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“You look hot,” Stiles says, reaching out and tapping the frame of Derek’s glasses. “All smart and shit.”

Derek pulls a face. “Do I not usually look smart?” 

“Mmm, I just assume that people figure you’re the brawns and I’m the brains.” Stiles grins. 

“Brat.”

“But seriously, you look hot. Like, Sexy Teacher Everyone Has a Secret Crush on Hot.” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and squirms a little in Derek’s lap. 

Derek leans back a little, one hand drifting to his belly, although he doesn’t seem to recognize he’s doing it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I mean it,” Stiles says, flipping around so that he’s facing Derek, straddling his big thighs. “You look like the football coach who’s also the history teacher.” Stiles leans forward a little, until his pointy little chin is resting on Derek’s shoulder, and he’s almost but not quite whispering in his ear. “The one that played college ball till he blew out his knee, and then he got sort of fat”—Stiles reaches down and pats Derek’s belly—“but he’s still really strong, and completely, totally hot, and I’d have been helplessly in love with you if I’d been in your class.”

Derek huffs out a laugh. “You little pervert. So even then, huh? The belly would have done it for you?” 

“Oh, god, yes. I’d have gotten in trouble every day, just so you could make me stay after class, _Mr. Hale_.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles.” 

*

Derek knows Stiles is excited before he even makes it through the front door—he can smell it, a mix of enthusiasm and joy and, weirdly, a note of apprehension?—as he hears Stiles coming up the stairs. 

“Guess what?” Stiles says the moment he steps inside, tossing down his backpack and kicking off his shoes, abandoning them in the doorway like he always does. 

“What?” 

“No, you have to guess,” Stiles insists. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s about home.”

“Jesus, do I want to guess?” Derek flares his nostrils again, double-checking Stiles’ scent. “You smell happy, which isn’t usually in line with any news from Beacon Hills.”

“It’s happy news,” Stiles clarifies.

“They closed the nemeton.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I said happy, not miraculous. C’mon, Sourwolf. Happy news that people share. Hazard a guess.”

“Oh, god, is someone pregnant?” Derek wrinkles his nose. “Chris wouldn’t be that fucking stupid, would he?”

“Oh for the love of god, Derek. I said _happy news_ , you fucking Eeyore.” Stiles’ voice is heated, but his eyes are still warm, as if he finds Derek frustrating but endearing. Which—well, Derek understands that feeling. It’s how he feels about Stiles 99% of the time. “And hey—would it be the absolute worst news if Lydia was pregnant? Why you gotta be such a downer?”

Derek blinks. “She’s in her first semester of grad school and Chris is—what, 45? And the last time we spent a weekend with them, he killed four people.” 

“Well hey, buddy, you ripped someone’s throat out that weekend.”

“One of any number of reasons I’m glad you’re not pregnant,” Derek deadpans. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and waves a dismissive hand. “No, it’s Scott and Kira—“

“Kira’s pregnant?”

“ _No, you weirdo_ , no one is pregnant. You’re obsessed!” 

“You said happy news that people share,” Derek says. 

“Yes, and what do people usually do before they have kids?”

“Fuck?”

“Oh my fucking god. They’re getting married!”

“Oh.” Derek blinks. Now that Stiles has pointed it out, it does seem like a more obvious piece of news than, say, Lydia and Chris’s surprise love-child. It’s just that Derek doesn’t really have a frame of reference for marriage. Born wolves didn’t always do it, to begin with. His parents had been married, but it was more because the Hales were such a prominent family in Beacon Hills than because of any special importance they placed on the institution. And then when he’d lost—well, everyone, nearly—there hadn’t been family weddings to attend, if any of them had ended up having one. 

“Well?” Stiles is looking at him expectantly. 

“That’s great.” 

Stiles gives him a funny look, one he can’t quite place. “Yeah, it really is, dude.”

“I’m not surprised,” he says. “They looked pretty happy, playing house and all, when we were there.”

“Playing house?” Stiles echoes.

Derek shrugs. “They looked happy, is all I meant.” Stiles smells like frustration, suddenly, and that note of apprehension is still there, but Derek doesn’t know why. The whole conversation is leaving him feeling a little off-balance, as if Stiles is looking for something he can’t find, or Derek isn’t giving. 

“So when’s the wedding?” he asks, not because he actually cares, particularly, but because it seems like the question to ask. 

“New Year’s Day,” Stiles says, his smile returning. “They’re having it then because everyone will be home for the holidays.” He gives Derek a meaningful look. 

“Including us?” Derek asks, because he isn’t stupid, even if he _is_ having troubling figuring out the nuances of this conversation. 

“Well, you should see your alpha get married, yeah? And your b—and see me in a tux? I’m the best man,” Stiles says, and he looks even younger than usual, his grin taking up his whole face, brown eyes shining. Derek wonders, looking at him, if this is what Stiles would look like all the time, if his adolescence hadn’t been so fucked up. If he’d just grown up like normal people, blissfully unaware of the supernatural. 

Derek cocks an eyebrow. “A tux, huh?” He gives Stiles a slow, dirty up-and-down, purposely lecherous. “You think you in a tux is enough for me to suffer through that fucking plane ride again?”

Stiles gives him a look, peeking up from under his eyelashes in a pantomime of innocence that makes Derek want to throw him onto the living room floor and fuck him senseless. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Derek grins, happy to feel the conversation shift back into territory that he understands. “Mm. Come here, kiddo, and show me how you’ll do that.”

*

Even from 2000 miles away, the impending McCall/Yukimara nuptials are the dominant point of conversation from then on. Derek watches, amused, as Stiles fields calls from both Scott and Kira on the subject of flowers—Kira wants tulips, and Scott doesn’t know what tulips are; wedding colors—Kira wants silver and white, since it’s a winter wedding, and Scott secretly thinks silver isn’t actually a color; and venue—Kira wants a big dancefloor, and Scott had sort of thought maybe they could get married in Melissa’s backyard. 

In November, there are many heated conversations about food, and Derek peeks over Stiles’ shoulder one day to see him texting furiously with Kira about the merits of buffets versus plated meals. 

Derek snorts. “You’re taking your gay best friend job real seriously,” he comments. 

Stiles looks up from his phone after he sends this brilliant piece of wedding advice: _Dude, do the buffet. People like to pick shit._

“I’m not just the gay best friend. I’m also the best man. This wedding could barely happen if it weren’t for me,” Stiles says. “Besides, big guy, you know the buffet is the way to go.”

“Does Kira know you’re giving her wedding advice based on your being a sexual deviant?”

Before Stiles can answer, his phone dings again. Derek looks down to see a text message from Lydia flash onto the screen. _Quit telling Kira to have a buffet. It’s tacky, and you just want one so you can feed Derek his weight in mini quiches at the reception._

Stiles doesn’t even blush, just looks up at Derek with a grin. “Kira might not, but Lyds does.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles. You’re shameless.” 

“Pretty much.”

*

Since they’re flying home for Christmas and New Year’s, they don’t go home for Thanksgiving. Derek offers to buy Stiles a ticket, if he wants, but Stiles doesn’t want to spend the holiday away from Derek—even though he’s not sure what they are, not sure if holidays are a thing they do together, really. 

So when Derek says he’ll pay to send Stiles home, Stiles tells him he doesn’t want to let Derek pay for him, that he can’t take the money. Which is true, sort of—Derek already lets Stiles live with him for almost nothing, pays for groceries and dinners out and movie tickets and pretty much everything. But what he doesn’t tell Derek is that he hates the idea of Derek being in New Orleans alone on Thanksgiving, that he hates that idea almost as much as he hates the idea of himself being back in Beacon Hills without Derek. 

As it turns out, though, Derek wouldn’t have been alone; Malia flies into New Orleans two days before Thanksgiving, and apparently she does it every year. Sometimes Stiles is still amazed by the sheer amount of things he doesn’t know about Derek. Like for instance, the way that Malia bounces over to them at the airport when they pick her up, and she flings her arms around Derek’s neck with that open, completely unselfconscious way she has. Derek returns the hug just as fiercely, and then he actually picks her up, feet off the ground, and spins her as Malia tells him how much she’s missed him since Labor Day. Stiles realizes then that Derek is, sort of, a stand-in for Peter in Malia’s life. Not quite a father figure—he’s too young, for one thing. But something more than a friend, more than a cousin. A big brother, maybe. 

Stiles watches them, the warm affection between them, the way Derek grins at her, easy and fond. God, he loves Derek. 

He _loves_ Derek. 

He’s in love with Derek. And he has been, practically since the moment he got off the fucking airplane and Derek was there, climbing out of the Camaro, simultaneously exactly the same as he ever was and completely fucking different. 

He’s in love with Derek, and he doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to call the man his boyfriend. And he can’t seem to figure out how to ask. 

*

Malia and Derek, apparently, have Thanksgiving rituals. On Wednesday, they go to Rouse’s and pick out enough food to feed a small village—but no turkey, only ham, because Malia insists that fowl is “stringy,” an adjective that Stiles is rather disturbingly concerned applies more to whatever birds she caught on the wing, as it were, when she was living in the woods, than to the nice Butterball turkeys that they pass by at the grocery store.

On Thursday, they turn on the Macy’s Day parade and absolutely wreck Derek’s normally tidy kitchen. Derek makes ham, and Malia makes mashed potatoes. Stiles watched with a kind of stunned fascination as Malia dumps an entire stick of butter into the bowl before she starts grinding them up with a hand mixer. Little flecks of potato fly all over the cabinets. If Derek notices, he lets it slide. 

Stiles himself gets pressed into service, when Malia puts him in charge of noodles—which basically means she hands him a premade package of egg noodles and a container of chicken broth and tells him to boil them. He bitches that no one has any faith in his abilities, and Derek just snorts and swats him on the ass as he goes past. 

They make some sort of Cajun version of stuffing, with shrimp and oysters in it, and Malia makes that wretched green bean casserole with the little onion rings on the top. Stiles boils his noodles and just watches them, a little stunned by how domestic it all is. 

He wonders, as he watches, what Derek would have been like if the fire had never happened. Watching him like this, at ease in the kitchen with his family (all one of them), Stiles thinks maybe he might have been almost unrecognizable. 

It hurts his heart a little. 

Stiles starts to set the table, when everything is nearly done, but Malia doesn’t let him. “No, no, that’s not how we do it,” she says. 

“How do we do it?”

“We eat on the couch and watch the dog show,” she says, as if it should be obvious. 

And so Stiles finds himself sandwiched between them on the couch, balancing his plate on his knees and watching the Hales watching the Westminster Dog Show. Enthusiastically. With opinions. 

“Do you even like dogs?” he finally asks Derek. 

Derek shrugs, and then drops his fangs just a little, till they’re poking into his bottom lip. “Sure, but they don’t like me.” 

Stiles blinks. Derek almost never shifts, and certainly not like that, so casually. It’s sort of hot. 

By the time the dog show is over, Derek has worked his way through a seriously tremendous amount of food, even by holiday standards, and Stiles is dying to climb into his lap—but he’s resisting that urge, since they have company. Derek isn’t helping, leaning back and sprawling across the couch, looking lazy and full and ridiculously sexy. Malia disappears into the kitchen and then calls out, “Stiles, you wanna come get Derek pie? We got pumpkin and pecan. ”

Malia is so painfully fucking direct. “Uh—“ he looks over at Derek. “You want pie? Apparently Malia thinks I should give you pie.”

Derek smirks. “If she wasn’t here, you’d be trying to feed me the entire thing.” 

Stiles ducks his head. “It’s Thanksgiving. You’re supposed to.” 

“Uh huh.”

*

That night, when Malia is asleep in the room that Stiles pays for but doesn’t use, Stiles tugs Derek into their bedroom and sits him down on the foot of the bed, then falls to his knees in front of him, unbuttoning his fly. He blows him, slow, teasing, never setting a steady pace, never taking him all the way down, until Derek grabs the back of his neck and shoves him forward, letting Stiles gag himself on Derek’s cock until it’s spit-slick and messy. Then he pulls Stiles back, looking down at him. “Okay?”

“So okay,” Stiles breathes, one hand grasping Derek’s thigh, the other resting against his belly. “Do it. Fuck my mouth.” 

So Derek does, pulling Stiles down onto his cock with both hands, holding him in place and thrusting up, hard, even when Stiles chokes a little, gags and drools. 

“That’s so good, kiddo, so fucking good,” Derek babbles, and Stiles reaches down to palm his own cock, humping into his hand. When Derek stiffens, pulls his cock out of Stiles’ mouth and comes on his cheeks and chin and tongue, Stiles comes, too, spilling desperately into his own hand. 

After, when Derek tugs Stiles close to him, safe and secure as the little spoon against Derek’s big body, Derek’s round belly pressed into Stiles’ lower back, his strong arm slung over Stiles’ chest, Stiles thinks he’s, maybe, never been so happy. 

He opens his mouth—wants to throw caution to the wind, tell Derek that he loves him, that he’s happy, that he always wants to have Thanksgiving with him, wants to have all of that stuff with him, together. At the last minute, though, he swallows it back. “G’night,” he mumbles instead. 

Derek’s voice is already blurry with sleep. “Night, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments are so very welcomed and appreciated, and you should hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com).


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles can't keep his mouth shut any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finished! This has sort of been my dream 'verse, and I'm so glad that there were people who seemed to enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

“You should come with me to get fitted for my tux.”

“I’m not in the wedding.” 

“No, but you need a suit, anyway, don’t you?”

“I have a suit.”

Stiles gives him a look that is equal parts sweetness and mischief. “Yeah, but can you fit in it?”

Derek bites his lip, considering. He hasn’t worn it in…a while. At least a year. Maybe longer. “Fine, I’ll go.”

“You should try it on—the one you’ve already got—though, first,” Stiles says, flashing wide, not-even-remotely-innocent eyes at Derek. “Just to be sure.”

“And should I let you be the judge of whether or not it fits?” 

“Umm, yes. Definitely. I want to help, Derek.” 

“Kinky little shit.”

Stiles gives him a hundred-watt grin, and Derek can feel his own lips twitching in response. The kid is a menace, an absolute terror.

Derek would give him the moon if he could reach it and Stiles even hinted that he wanted it. 

*

The suit does _not_ fit. Stiles’ eyes widen and then glaze over when Derek puts it on, pants riding low on his hips, fastened under his gut. The jacket doesn’t button. 

“Umm. You look really good,” Stiles mumbles. 

Derek frowns. He will never fully understand exactly what it is about this sort of thing that gets Stiles off quite that hard. He sits down next to Stiles on the bed, wincing as the waistband cuts into the tender skin of his belly. He looks down at himself and regrets it—his belly looks bigger, rounder, than it really is, pushed out over the suit pants he’d barely been able to fasten. 

Stiles lays a hand on the side of his tummy, then leans up and catches Derek’s lips in a kiss. “Don’t look so grouchy,” he breathes against Derek’s mouth. “We’ll get you a new suit. And you’ll look really fucking handsome in it, and I’ll be pushing down a boner the whole time we’re at the wedding.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles’ version of dirty talk is—enthusiastic, at any rate. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” Stiles slides to his knees in front of Derek, palming his gut. “I’ll be wishing I could get on my knees for you the whole fucking time.” 

Derek reaches out, catches Stiles’ messy hair in his fingers, tugs a little. “Show me.”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate, stretching forward until he’s mouthing at Derek’s cock through the fabric of his pants, eyes closed, lashes fanned out on his cheeks. He’s so fucking beautiful, and Derek knows that he has no idea. The kid has no idea he’s gorgeous, no idea that he practically stops traffic. He walks through the city with Derek, looking like Derek’s doing him some sort of favor. It floors, him, really, that Stiles has no idea how the world views him. 

Or how the world views Derek, for that matter. 

He can’t think too deeply on it, though, before Stiles is tugging at the button on his pants, pushing on his fat tummy until he sucks in his breath and Stiles can get the waistband open. 

Stiles sucks his cock with that curiously playful earnestness he always has, mixing feathery little licks and sucks with porn-worthy deep-throats until Derek is pulling the kid by his hair, dragging him down onto his cock repeatedly. And Stiles just takes it. He takes it so fucking good. 

*

It’s two weeks before Christmas when Stiles finally just blurts it out. 

He doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t plan it. Which, yeah. Stiles isn’t super awesome at planning, most of the time. He likes to research, he likes to consider all the angles—and then he usually just ends up jumping into something anyway. 

So. That’s how it happens. 

They spend the day in the French Quarter, collars turned up against what passes for a winter breeze in New Orleans, air damp and a little chilled. It’s Stiles’ day off from the coffee shop, and he’s turned in his last paper of the semester. They’re both content to just wind their way through the Quarter, idly window shopping and people watching. They drink bloody marys with lunch, and Stiles wrinkles his nose at the pickled okra that garnishes the drink. “It’s supposed to be celery,” he says, looking perturbed. “Not in New Orleans,” Derek counters, and Stiles can’t argue with that. 

In the afternoon, they end up with go cups of sticky sweet café au lait and wax paper packages of pecan pralines, walking along the Mississippi and watching the cruise ships and barges go past. It’s nothing special—nothing about the day is special, particularly, except that it’s December, and everywhere they turn the city is decked out for the holidays, and it’s chilly, and they’re together, and it’s _nice_. 

Derek has one arm clamped around Stiles’ elbow, a warm and steady presence that Stiles loves. He didn’t used to do it—at first, if Stiles wanted to touch Derek in public, he’d have to grab his hand, lace their fingers together himself. He could tell that it had surprised Derek, that maybe it wasn’t something he expected. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even something Derek had done with a partner before—a thought that makes Stiles sort of sad. 

Now, though, Derek seems to recognize that Stiles craves touch, contact, that if Derek doesn’t bestow it, Stiles will seek it out like a cat looking for a patch of sunshine. So Derek does it, touches him and holds him and steadies him, without being asked. 

“Do you sort of wish we were staying in New Orleans for Christmas?” Stiles asks, glancing up at Derek as they walk along. 

Derek shrugs. “Sort of.” He looks at Stiles, his expression a little inscrutable. “I know you’re excited to go home, though.”

“Yeah, of course.” He lifts his coffee cup idly at the river in front of them, at the city behind them. “This is nice, too, though.” 

“It is. Some years Malia comes down for Christmas. It’s nice.” 

Stiles nods, smiling slightly at the thought of their little Hale Christmases, wondering what weird little traditions they’ve made together. “Next year we should stay here. And get a tree.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he stiffens. He can’t seem to help it, talking about their future together, making all these assumptions about what they are and what they will be. 

“You could have got a tree this year,” Derek says, sidestepping the mention of the future. 

Stiles shrugs. “Since we won’t actually be here on Christmas day, it doesn’t matter.” 

“I would have bought you one, if you wanted.” Derek says it casually, not even looking over at Stiles. 

“Really?”

Derek shoots him a look. “You always get what you want, don’t you?” 

Stiles grins. “You spoil me.”

“Brat.”

“I love you, though.” 

_Jesus fucking fuck._ It isn’t even a conversation that warrants that kind of emotion. It’s not a deep, meaningful talk about feelings, or labels, or their relationship. It’s a joking fucking conversation about a Christmas tree. And somehow Stiles had opened his mouth and just blurted out exactly what he was thinking, like there was not even the thinnest veneer of a filter between his brain and his mouth. 

Derek stops walking, his hand still wrapped around Stiles’ elbow, jerking to a halt so abruptly that Stiles splashes coffee onto his sneakers. 

“Um.” Stiles looks over at him, afraid of what he’ll find. 

Derek’s face isn’t the harsh mask he expects to see, which is a relief. Instead, his expression is almost—pained? Which makes Stiles feel even worse, somehow. 

*

They order Chinese that night, and neither of them eat much, just picking at it while Stiles endlessly flips through the channels, never staying on anything longer than a minute or two. The tension is obvious, and Stiles can’t fucking stand it. “So, are we gonna talk about this, or just be weird around each other forever?” he finally asks, feeling less nervous than just frustrated that everything has to be this hard, that he always has to force Derek into conversations. 

Derek looks at him, and Stiles still can’t tell what he’s thinking. “About what?”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._ “Oh, you know, when I blurted out that I love you and you fucking stood there like I’d hit you in the face with a dead fish. That. You asshole.”

Derek’s lip twitches, but it happens so quickly it barely registers, and then he just looks somber again. Like talking about Stiles’ feelings is the emotional equivalent of a fucking funeral. “Stiles…” he sighs, trailing off, running a hand through his hair. 

“What, Derek? Fucking what?” 

“I don’t—Jesus. Look, Stiles. I know you—I know you think that right now, and I’m—I’m glad you’re here, okay? But kiddo, look at you. You’re twenty-two years old, and it’s a Friday night in New Orleans. You should be out somewhere, dancing or fucking or drinking or—Jesus, whatever you want. And instead you’re here with me, eating Chinese food and watching fucking TV.” Derek shakes his head, looking frustrated and anguished all at once. “You think this is what you want, but—but you’re going to get restless. I know that. And it’s okay. You won’t want to live a half-life with me here, not forever. You’ve said it yourself, you want me to be part of your life back in Beacon Hills, you want me to do things I can’t do. You won’t want this here with me, not forever.”

He pauses, and Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but Derek shakes his head. “I can’t give you the things you want. You won’t want this, not forever.” He laughs, and it is so fucking bitter. “An unemployed werewolf, ten years older than you, carrying around a big belly, this fat guy that looks all out of shape when you’re—fuck, look at you, Stiles, you’re a fucking wet dream, every time I take you out I want to rip out the throats of every man who looks at you.” He laughs again, and the sound goes right through Stiles. 

“Oh, fuck you, Derek, just fuck you.” 

Derek blinks, looking surprised that Stiles is mad. 

“I don’t even know where to start. But you can shut the fuck up and listen to me now, okay?” Stiles tosses down the carton of orange chicken he’s holding, faces Derek on the couch and just stares at him for a minute. “You’re so fucking stupid, you know that? Jesus, Derek. I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen fucking years old—“

“That’s the problem, Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “You look at me sometimes like you still have that crush, like you see the person I was five years ago, but I’m not—“

“Shut the fuck _up_ ,” Stiles cuts him off. “I don’t look at you like the person you used to be. Because, dude, the person you used to be? Had a six pack, which apparently you’re still in mourning for, I guess? But he was also kind of a fucking dick. And I was in love with him anyway, but I was also a fucking kid. And you think I still am, but I’m _not_. You aren’t my first relationship. You aren’t my first boyfriend, or my first fuck—you’re just the first person I’ve looked at and thought, I never want to fucking leave them. I don’t _want_ to go out, Derek. I want to sit right fucking here and eat Chinese food with you, you absolute dick. _You are what I want_.” 

Derek looks at him, slowly shaking his head. “But you won’t feel that way, not forever—“

“Dude. Stop telling me how I fucking feel.”

Derek stops, sits there and watches him for a second or two, and Stiles takes the opportunity to gather his thoughts. 

“And you’re not out of shape,” he adds. “You’re a badass werewolf who rescued me after I was kidnapped.”

Derek sighs. “That’s not the point. I’m too old for you, I don’t have a job—“

“You’re an actual millionaire, Derek. You don’t have to have a fucking job.” 

“I’m just saying—“

“Well, stop. Stop telling me how I fucking feel.” 

*

Derek doesn’t say it back. He doesn’t say anything. 

But he takes Stiles to the bedroom, lays him down across the bed like he’s something fragile, something beautiful and easily broken. 

Kisses him softly, so, so softly, touching him like he’s never touched him before, like he’s something precious. 

Stiles is usually sort of demanding in bed—Derek has, on more than one occasion, accused him of being a “pushy fucking bottom,” which is something Stiles can’t really deny but also doesn’t quite understand as an insult. He does like to get fucked. He does like to get pushed around. He also likes what he likes, when he likes it, and he’s not really afraid to ask for it. 

But now, with Derek above him, kissing him and touching him and taking him apart, touch by touch, Stiles can’t beg or boss or plead. He just lies there, letting Derek do what he will. 

Derek is always a confident lover. He never hesitates to tell Stiles what to do, to pull Stiles up over him, to hold his hips and pull him down when Stiles is riding him, setting the pace even when Stiles is on top. But tonight—tonight he is overwhelming in the way that he covers Stiles’ body, pressing Stiles’ lithe frame against the mattress with his own, bigger body pressing down against him. 

He catches both of Stiles’ wrists in one hand and pins them above Stiles’ head, holding him still and kissing his neck, his throat, dragging his bearded cheeks across that soft skin until Stiles knows it will be a mess of beard burn and hickeys. 

“Beautiful, kiddo. Such a beautiful boy.” Derek’s voice is lower than usual, hollow and gravelly, and it makes Stiles moan, just at the sound of it in his ear.

“Yours, Derek.” 

“ _Mine_.” The word comes out on a growl, and Stiles thinks that even if Derek might not want to hear Stiles’ confessions of love, his wolf seems more than fine with it. 

When Derek gets him ready, it’s almost too much—too much lube, too much stretching, too many crooked fingers over his prostate. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” Derek mumbles, and his eyes have the faintest tint of blue around the edges. “So good, can you take more?”

Stiles shifts his hips, humping helplessly against Derek’s hand, where three fingers are already inside him. “Yes.” Yes. He would take anything for Derek, whatever Derek gave him. His fingers, his cock, his scraps of affection. 

“That’s so good, you’re so good, you’re perfect,” Derek says, babbling, sounding as wrecked as Stiles when he slides his pinky in along with the others, filling Stiles up, stretching his rim painfully, perfectly, completely. 

It’s hard to think coherently, falling apart on Derek’s hand like this, Derek fucking him with his fingers, curling them just right on the upward stroke to brush his prostrate, but Stiles manages to wonder if Derek will try to add his thumb. It would be the first time for Stiles—no one has ever put their hand inside him. He’s never ever really thought he’d wanted it. Now, though, he realizes that he might want it, for Derek. Would open himself up for Derek in whatever way Derek wanted. 

Derek doesn’t ask for that, though. Just fingers him senseless until Stiles is crying full out, not just leaking tears but keening in little abortive sobs, breath hitching in his chest. 

“Please, Derek, please, please.”

Derek pulls his fingers free, and it feels awful—feels empty and foreign, like loss—but Derek is shushing him immediately, mumbling nonsense praise and comfort as he slicks his cock. 

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he whispers, taking Stiles’ long legs and bracing them against his shoulders, leaning forward and fucking into Stiles in one long stroke that makes Stiles see white. 

He fucks him steadily, deep and firm but rigidly controlled, and Stiles is folded nearly in half beneath him, legs over Derek’s wide shoulders, Derek’s big belly pressed against him, Stiles’ cock trapped beneath it the way he likes—the way he fucking loves. 

Derek croons into his ear the whole time, nonsense words and praise, telling Stiles how beautiful he is, how good he feels, how well he takes Derek’s cock, what a good boy he is. 

Not once does Derek make a declaration of love. Nothing but profane, perverse praise. But it’s enough—enough that Stiles feels the tension in his chest ease a little, enough that Stiles can breathe. 

Afterward, they eat long-cold Chinese food in bed. Stiles feeds Derek egg rolls by hand, not even because it’s sexy, necessarily—just because they’re together, just because he can. It’s long past midnight, into that murky time of night when it’s hard to say if it’s very late or very early, when they fall asleep, sticky and sated, wrapped together. Stiles falls asleep rubbing lazy circles on Derek’s belly, his head tucked under Derek’s chin, Derek’s broad arms wrapped around him. 

The last thing Stiles thinks before he slips into sleep is that this could be enough—if Derek can’t promise him forever, can’t tell him he loves him? Maybe being wrapped up in his arms every night, safe and protected, is enough of a declaration from this man who can’t seem to find the right words. 

*

_Epilogue_

“They’re adorable, aren’t they?” Stiles feels like his mouth might crack from smiling, watching Scott and Kira in the middle of their first dance. 

“Scott’s stepped on her foot three times,” Derek replies. 

Stiles looks at Kira, resplendent in a slinky, old Hollywood style gown, laughing and whispering into her new husband’s ear. “I don’t think she cares.”

“No, not a bit.” 

Stiles leans over until he and Derek are shoulder to shoulder, rests himself against Derek’s heavy frame. Doesn’t say anything, just lets Derek take his weight, enjoys being held up against him. It feels good, being back in Beacon Hills to celebrate, being surrounded by friends. His dad and Scott’s mom, standing together, his dad’s hand on her shoulder. Liam and Mason, already looking half drunk on draft beer. Malia, pressing a glass of champagne into the hand of a pretty cousin of Kira’s, looking absolutely feral and on the prowl. Lydia and Chris, Lydia tucked up under his shoulder like she belongs there, both of them daring anyone to say a word about it. _Home._

“Scott looks like he won the lottery,” Derek says as the couple twirls slowly by. 

Stiles laughs. “He sort of did.”

“I know the feeling.”

Stiles blinks, looking up at Derek, who’s staring back at him, suddenly serious as a heart attack. “Yeah, big guy?”

“Yeah.” Derek turns, puts his hands on Stiles’ biceps, holds him there, pulls him forward until they’re facing each other, Derek’s round belly brushing Stiles’ flat one. 

Stiles grins. “So you’re saying that if I wanted a big ass wedding we could have one?” 

“I don’t know if you could pull off a wedding gown,” Derek says dryly. 

“What makes you think I’d be the one in the gown?” Stiles’ grin is lighting up his whole face now. 

Derek snorts. “Everything about our relationship, kiddo?” 

“I could wear the pants if I wanted, Derek Hale.”

“Do you want to?”

“God, no.” 

“Okay then.” Derek smirks, pulling Stiles closer, leaning their foreheads together. 

He just looks at Stiles a moment, then swallows. “I would. Throw you a wedding. If that’s what you wanted.”

“Yeah?” For once, Stiles is the one without any words. 

“Yeah.” Derek pulls back a little, scans Stiles’ face for a second. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find. “Yeah. I—I love you, kiddo.” 

Stiles wants to say something smart, cut some of the tension somehow, but he can’t, can’t think of anything to say at all, almost. When he finally opens his mouth, “Thank god,” is what falls out. 

Derek laughs, low and easy. “I’m sorry that—sorry that I didn’t say it sooner.” 

“It’s okay.” Stiles grins, finding his tongue. “You can pay me back by throwing me the biggest wedding ever. We’ll make this one look like a kid’s birthday party.”

Derek blanches. “Oh god, Stiles, are you serious?”

“You said you would,” Stiles says, trying to look serious but feeling his lips curving. 

“Brat.” 

“Love you too, big guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for the ridiculously saccharine ending, and thank you so much for reading. Your comments make my world. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com). I have a few fic ideas brewing, and I will probably be posting snippets there first, if you're interested.


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